Mr. Dashwood in his delirium had penetrated deep into the wood beyond sight of road or house before he recovered his normal senses.

Then that unpleasant candid friend who lives in the brain of every man had his say.

"Oh, what a fool you have made of yourself! Oh, what a fool you have made of yourself!" said the friend who only speaks after an error has been committed, and then in a gloating voice.

"What will she think of you?" went on the tormentor. "You have acted like a hooligan. But that wouldn't matter, for passionate men are apt to be hooligans, and women don't mind that—but to run away! To run like a rabbit! She does not know about your absurd compact with French. She only knows that you have behaved like a hooligan or an Ass. Yes, my friend, an Ass, with a capital 'A.'"

There were nut groves here, and one required the instincts of a bush pig to make one's way in any given direction. Mr. Dashwood, moving blindly and swiftly, spurred on by a mad desire to get back to The Martens, pack his bag, escape to London, and explain everything in a letter, took, by chance, the right road, and struck a right of way that led through the woods skirting the hill of Crowsnest and bringing him on the road to the Downs.

He ascended the steep path leading to The Martens at full speed, and, out of breath, flushed, and perspiring, he was making his way to the bungalow, when he met French, amiable-looking, cool, and smoking a cigar.

"Hullo!" said French. "What's up?"

"Everything," said Mr. Dashwood. "Don't keep me, like a good fellow. I'm off to London."

"Off to London! Why, I thought you were staying till Monday."

"I'm not."

"Where's Miss Grimshaw?" asked French, following the other to the house. "Did you leave her in the village."

"No, I left her by the bridge—I mean on the bridge, down by the river."

French followed the young man into his bedroom. Bobby Dashwood, who seemed like a sleeper half-awakened from a horrible nightmare, pulled a kit-bag from the corner of the room and began stuffing it with clothes.

French took his seat on a chair and puffed his cigar.

"Botheration!" said French, who saw love's despair in the erratic movements of his companion. "Botheration! See here, Dashwood."

"Yes—oh, what!"

"Don't go getting in a flurry over nothing."

"Nothing!" said Mr. Dashwood with a hollow laugh, stuffing socks and hairbrushes into the yawning bag.

"When you've been through the mill as often as I have," said French, "you'll know what I mean. There never was a girl made but there wasn't as good a one made to match her."

"I'm not thinking of girls. I'm thinking of myself. I've made—I've made an ass of myself."

"Faith, you're not the first man that's done that."

"Possibly."

"And won't be the last. I've done it so often myself. Ass! Faith, it's a herd of asses I've made of myself, and jackasses at that, and there you go getting into a flurry over doing what every man does. Did you ask her?"

"No," said Dashwood, viciously, clasping the bag, "I didn't."

"Then how on earth did you make an ass of yourself?" asked French, without in the least meaning to be uncomplimentary.

"How?" cried Dashwood, infuriated. "Why, by trying to act straight over this business. Now I must go. I'll write from town. I'll explain everything in a letter. Only, promise me one thing—don't say anything to—her. Don't ask her questions."