“Well, how would you like to come with us for a few days and help with things? Seven-and-sixpence a week.” Bealby’s face was eloquent. “Would your stepfather object?” Bealby considered. “I don’t think he would,” he said. “You’d better go round and ask him.” “I—suppose—yes,” he said. “And get a few things.” “Things, Mum?” “Collars and things. You needn’t bring a great box for such a little while.” “Yes, Mum....” He hovered rather undecidedly. “Better run along now. Our man and horse will be coming presently. We shan’t be able to wait for you long....” Bealby assumed a sudden briskness and departed. At the gate of the field he hesitated almost imperceptibly and then directed his face to the Sabbath stillness of the village. Perplexity corrugated his features. The stepfather’s permission presented no difficulties, but it was more difficult about the luggage. A voice called after him. “Yes, Mum?” he said attentive and hopeful. Perhaps—somehow—they wouldn’t want luggage. “You’ll want Boots. You’ll have to walk by the caravan, you know. You’ll want some good stout Boots.” “All right, Mum,” he said with a sorrowful break in his voice. He waited a few moments but nothing more came. He went on—very slowly. He had forgotten about the boots. That defeated him.... It is hard to be refused admission to Paradise for the want of a hand-bag and a pair of walking-boots.... § 5 Bealby was by no means certain that he was going back to that caravan. He wanted to do so quite painfully, but— He’d just look a fool going back without boots and—nothing on earth would reconcile him to the idea of looking a fool in the eyes of that beautiful woman in blue. “Dick,” he whispered to himself despondently, “Daredevil Dick!” (A more miserable-looking face you never set eyes on.) “It’s all up with your little schemes, Dick, my boy. You _must_ get a bag—and nothing on earth will get you a bag.” He paid little heed to the village through which he wandered. He knew there were no bags there. Chance rather than any volition of his own guided him down a side path that led to the nearly dry bed of a little rivulet, and there he sat down on some weedy grass under a group of willows. It was an untidy place that needed all the sunshine of the morning to be tolerable; one of those places where stinging nettles take heart and people throw old kettles, broken gallipots, jaded gravel, grass cuttings, rusty rubbish, old boots—. For a time Bealby’s eyes rested on the objects with an entire lack of interest. Then he was reminded of his not so very remote childhood when he had found an old boot and made it into a castle.... Presently he got up and walked across to the rubbish heap and surveyed its treasures with a quickened intelligence. He picked up a widowed boot and weighed it in his hand. He dropped it abruptly, turned about and hurried back into the village street.