and enlargement returns to me. Ifeel again the faintpleasant

excitement of the boat train, the trampling procession of people

with hand baggage and laden porters along the platform of the

Folkestone pier, the scarcelyperceptible swaying of the moored boat

beneath our feet. Then, very obvious and simple, the littleemotion

of standing out from the homeland andseeing the long white Kentish

cliffs recede. One walked about the boat doing one's best not to

feel absurdly adventurous, and presently a movement of people

directed one's attention to a white lighthouse on a cliff to the

east of us, coming up suddenly; and then one turned to scan the

little different French coast villages, and then, sliding by in a

pale sunshine came a long wooden pier with oddly dressed children

upon it, and the clustering town of Boulogne.

One took it all with the outward calm that became a young man of

nearly three and twenty, but one was alive to one's finger-tips with

pleasing little stimulations. The custom house examination excited

one, the strangeness of a babble in a foreign tongue; one found the

French of City Merchants' and Cambridge a shy and viscous flow, and

then one was standing in the train as it went slowly through the

rail-laid street to Boulogne Ville, and one looked out at the world

in French, porters in blouses, workmen in enormous purple trousers,

police officers in peaked caps instead of helmets and romantically

cloaked, big carts, all on two wheels instead of four, green

shuttered casements instead of sash windows, and great numbers of

neatly dressed women in economical mourning.

"Oh! there's a priest!" one said, and was betrayed into suchlike

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