onfused gnawing sense of things broken, faith
betrayed; and yet always the perplexed wonder--"How could I have helped
it?" And always Sylvia's wistful face that he tried not to look at.

He stole out, leaving Gordy and his tutor still over their wine, and
roamed about the garden a long time, listening sadly to the owls. It was
a blessing to get upstairs, though of course he would not sleep.

But he did sleep, all through a night of many dreams, in the last of
which he was lying on a mountain side, Anna looking down into his eyes,
and bending her face to his. He woke just as her lips touched him. Still
under the spell of that troubling dream, he became conscious of the
sound of wheels and horses' hoofs on the gravel, and sprang out of
bed. There was the waggonette moving from the door, old Godden driving,
luggage piled up beside him, and the Stormers sitting opposite each
other in the carriage. Going away like that--having never even said
good-bye! For a moment he felt as people must when they have unwittingly
killed someone--utterly stunned and miserable. Then he dashed into his
clothes. He would not let her go thus! He would--he must--see her again!
What had he done that she should go like this? He rushed downstairs.
The hall was empty; nineteen minutes to eight! The train left at eight
o'clock. Had he time to saddle Bolero? He rushed round to the stables;
but the cob was out, being shoed. He would--he must get there in time.
It would show her anyway that he was not quite a cad. He walked till the
drive curved, then began running hard. A quarter of a mile, and already
he felt better, not so miserable and guilty; it was something to feel
you had a tough job in hand, all your work cut out--something to have to
think of economizing strength, picking out the best going, keeping out
of the sun, saving your wind uphill, flying down any slope. It was cool
still, and the dew had laid the dust; there was no traffic and scarcely
anyone to look back and gape as he ran by. What he would do, if he got
there in time--how explain this mad three-mile run--he did not think.
He passed a farm that he knew was just half-way. He had left his watch.
Indeed, he had put on only his trousers, shirt, and Norfolk jacket; no
tie, no hat, not even socks under his tennis shoes, and he was as hot
as fire, with his hair flying back--a strange young creature indeed for
anyone to meet. But he had lost now all feeling, save the will to get
there. A floc