I let this chance of a bright future escape me! To fancy that the mere physical excitements of hunting and shooting (pastimes for a thoughtless boy) could content a being endowed with reason and feeling!--though really I doubt whether I deserve such a title. I must have been blind--stultified, not to see all this before!” Burying his face in his hands, he remained for some time in deep and self-upbraiding thought; rousing himself at length by an effort, he continued--“well! it’s no good sitting here tormenting myself all night long--I’ll go to bed (though, of course, I shall not sleep a wink), and in the morning I’ll walk over to the station, meet Arthur--tell him how I’ve mismanaged everything he expected me to do, and find some excuse for leaving this place to-morrow. I should go mad if I were to stay here longer! Heigho! I wonder what will become of me--it will be no pleasure to look forward to the shooting season now! I don’t believe I shall ever care to hit a bird or mount a horse again. I’ll go to India, and join the army as a volunteer, or start off to look for the north pole, or something. I shall hang myself if I stay at home, and do nothing but think about Alice and that detestable old Crane!” By the time his meditations had reached this point, Coverdale was unrobed, and, jumping disconsolately into bed, had not laid his head on his pillow for five minutes ere he fell sound asleep, and dreamed of a _battue_, in which he tried to shoot Mr. Crane (who, on that occasion only, appeared ornithologically and picturesquely attired in the tail and plumage of a cock-pheasant), and could by no means induce his gun to go off.