It was as Mary had feared. Barry's strength in his first resistance of Jerry's importunities had made him over-confident, so that when, at the end of the month, Jerry had returned and had pressed his claim, Barry had consented to lunch with him. At luncheon they met Jerry's crowd and Barry drank just one glass of golden sparkling stuff. But the one glass was enough to fire his blood--enough to change the aspect of the world--enough to make him reckless, boisterous--enough to make him consent to join at once Jerry's party in a motor trip to Scotland. In that moment the world of work receded, the world of which Leila was the center receded--the life which had to do with lodgings and primroses and Sheffield trays was faint and blurred to his mental vision. But this life, which had to do with laughter and care-free joyousness and forgetfulness, this was the life for a man who was a man. Jerry was saying, "There will be the three of us and the chauffeur--and we will take things in hampers and things in boxes, and things in bottles." Barry laughed. It was not a loud laugh, just a light boyish chuckle, and as he rose and stood with his hand resting on the table, many eyes were turned upon him. He was a handsome young American, his beautiful blond head held high. "You mustn't expect," he said, still with that light laughter, "that I am going to bring any bottles. Only thing I've got is a tea-caddy. Honest--a tea-caddy, and a Sheffield tray." Then some memory assailing him, he faltered, "And a little foolish footstool." "Sit down," Jerry said. There was something strangely appealing in that gay young figure with the shining eyes. In spite of himself, Jerry felt uncomfortable. "Sit down," he said. So Barry sat down, and laughed at nothing, and talked about nothing, and found it all very enchanting. He packed his bag and left a note for Gordon and when he piled finally with the others into Jerry's car, he was ready to shout with them that it was a long lane which had no turning, and that work was a bore and would always be. And so the ride which Leila had planned for herself and her young husband became a wild ride, in which these young knights of the road pursued fantastic adventures, with memories blank, and with consciences soothed. For days they rode, stopping at various inns along the way, startling the staid folk of the villages by their laughter late into the night; making boon companions in an hour, and leaving them with tears, to forget them at the first turn of the corner. Written as old romance, such things seem of the golden age; looked upon in the light of Barry's future and of Leila's, they were tragedy unspeakable. And now the car went up and up, to come down again to some stretch of sand, with the mountains looming black against one horizon, the sea a band of sapphire against another. And so, fate drawing them nearer and nearer, they came at last to the little town which Leila had described in her letter.