But Bealby had not “mizzled,” although he was conspicuously not in evidence about the camp. There was neither sight nor sound of him for all the time they sat about the vestiges of their meal. They talked of him and of topics arising out of him, and whether the captain should telegraph to Lady Laxton, “Boy practically found.” “I’d rather just find him,” said the captain, “and anyhow until we get hold of him we don’t know it’s her particular boy.” Then they talked of washing-up and how detestable it was. And suddenly the two husbands, seeing their advantage, renewed their proposals that the caravanners should put up at the golflinks hotel, and have baths and the comforts of civilization for a night or so—and anyhow walk thither for tea. And as William had now returned—he was sitting on the turf afar off smoking a nasty-looking short clay pipe—they rose up and departed. But Captain Douglas and Miss Philips for some reason did not go off exactly with the others, but strayed apart, straying away more and more into a kind of solitude.... First the four married people and then the two lovers disappeared over the crest of the downs.... § 9 For a time, except for its distant sentinel, the caravan seemed absolutely deserted, and then a clump of bramble against the wall of the old chalk pit became agitated and a small rueful disillusioned white-smeared little Bealby crept back into the visible universe again. His heart was very heavy. The time had come to go. And he did not want to go. He had loved the caravan. He had adored Madeleine. He would go, but he would go beautifully—touchingly. He would wash up before he went, he would make everything tidy, he would leave behind him a sense of irreparable loss.... With a mournful precision he set about this undertaking. If Mergleson could have seen, Mergleson would have been amazed.... He made everything look wonderfully tidy. Then in the place where she had sat, lying on her rug, he found her favourite book, a small volume of Swinburne’s poems very beautifully bound. Captain Douglas had given it to her. Bealby handled it with a kind of reverence. So luxurious it was, so unlike the books in Bealby’s world, so altogether of her quality.... Strange forces prompted him. For a time he hesitated. Then decision came with a rush. He selected a page, drew the stump of a pencil from his pocket, wetted it very wet and, breathing hard, began to write that traditional message, “Farewell. Remember Art Bealby.” To this he made an original addition: “I washt up before I went.”