was absolutely
ruthless. "No one but a fool tries to be superhuman," he said. "Come on!"

He had turned and was walking back in the direction of the Hall, and I
followed him, humiliated and angry.

It was so impossible for me at that moment to avoid the suspicion that he
had led me on by his appealing confidences solely in order to score off me
when I responded. It is not, indeed, surprising that that should be my
reaction while the hurt of his sneer still smarted. For he had pricked me
on a tender spot. I realised the weakness of what I had said; and it was a
characteristic weakness. I had been absurdly unpractical, as usual, aiming
like a fool, as Jervaise had said, at some "superhuman" ideal of freedom
that perhaps existed solely in my own imagination; and would certainly be
regarded by Mr. and Mrs. Jervaise and their circle of county friends as
the vapourings of a weak mind. In short, Jervaise had made me aware of my
own ineptitude, and it took me a full ten minutes before I could feel
anything but resentment.

We had passed back through the kitchen garden with its gouty espaliers,
and come into the pleasance before I forgave him. According to his habit,
he made no apology for his rudeness, but his explicit renewal of
confidence in me more nearly approached an overt expression of desire for
my friendship than anything I had ever known him to show hitherto.

"Look here, Melhuish," he said, stopping suddenly in the darkness of the
garden. I could not "look" with much effect, but I replied, a trifle
sulkily, "Well? What?"

"If she hasn't come back..." he said.

"I don't see that we can do anything more till to-morrow," I replied.

"No use trying to find her, of course," he agreed, irritably, "but we'd
better talk things over with the governor."

"If I can be of any help..." I remarked elliptically.

"You won't be if you start that transcendental rot," he returned, as if he
already regretted his condescension.

"What sort of rot do you want me to talk?" I asked.

"Common sense," he said.

I resisted the desire to say that I was glad he acknowledged the Jervaise
version of common sense to be one kind of rot.

"All serene," I agreed.

He did not thank me.

And when I looked back on the happenings of the two hours that had elapsed
since Jervaise had fetched me out of the improvised buffet, I was still
greatly puzzled to account for his marked choice of me as a confidant. It
was a choice that seemed to sig