The boat got into Broughton half an hour after the train had gone. We had been delayed by some small accident to the machinery¹; hence that lost half-hour, which meant a night's sojourn² for me in Broughton. I am ashamed of the things I thought and said. When I think that fate might have taken me at my word and raised up a special train, or some such miracle, by which I might have got away from Broughton that night, I experience a cold chill. Out of gratitude³ I have never sworn over missing connections since.

 

At the time, however, I felt thoroughly⁴ exasperated⁵. I was in a hurry to get on. Important business engagements would be unhinged by the delay. I was a stranger in Broughton. It looked like a stupid, stuffy⁶ little town. I went to a hotel in an atrocious humor. After I had fumed⁷ until I wanted a change, it occurred to me that I might as well hunt up Clark Oliver by way of passing the time. I had never been overly fond of Clark Oliver, although he was my cousin. He was a bit of a cad, and stupider than anyone belonging to our family had a right to be. Moreover, he was in politics, and I detest⁸ politics. But I rather wanted to see if he looked as much like me as he used to. I hadn't seen him for three years and I hoped that the time might have differentiated⁹ us to a saving degree. It was over a year since I had last been blown up by some unknown, excited individual on the ground that I was that scoundrel Oliver—politically speaking. I thought that was a good omen¹⁰.

 

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