But next morning at breakfast he said, “I daren’t go now.” He had hardly slept at all, and looked white. The light of the Seeker had gone out of his eyes, there had been no wish in him for a wild walk in the early sun. He was not even posing. He had been pathetically late for breakfast, and Mrs. Rust and the lady novelist had disappeared to read the _English Review_ and the _Lady’s Pictorial_ respectively on the front verandah. “Why daren’t you?” asked Courtesy. “Oh, Courtesy—she’s beaten me. She’s left me without hope.” Courtesy took several mouthfuls of porridge before she replied, “You’re young yet, gardener. And she isn’t so extra unique, after all. If you like, I’ll go round and ask for an explanation of the dog.” “You don’t know the way,” said the gardener tragically. It was lucky that Mr. Wise at that moment arrived in his buggy to invite Courtesy and Mrs. Rust (if she wasn’t too tired) for a drive. The buggy was a single one, and held two only, so there was a transparency about his motives which did him credit. Courtesy never even passed on the invitation to Mrs. Rust, and the owner of the vehicle failed to repeat it. Armed with her inevitable box of sweets, Courtesy set forth on her romance. “Ripping woods,” she said, as the sun winked through the delicate lace of the forest. “Ripping,” agreed Mr. Wise. “But full of ticks.” Courtesy suffered that beautiful shock that attacks a woman when she first realises that the man by her side is an uncommon person, and that he holds the same view about herself. She offered him a chocolate cream. They went to Park View by the longest way possible, but I think the nearest approach to romance that they reached was when Courtesy said, “Oh, Lor’, I am enjoying myself!” And Mr. Wise replied, “So am I. I hope you’ll come again.” When they reached Park View they were neither of them observant enough to notice the forsaken look of the house. “I’ll just go and tackle that funny little suffragette,” said Courtesy. “I won’t be half a mo.” She looked back and smiled at him as she climbed the drive. “Dey all gone, missis,” said John, who was sitting in the hall, reading the letters out of the waste-paper basket. “Gone? Where to?” “Gone to Lunnon Town to see a doctah man, please, missis.” “Union Town, you mean.” “No, please thank you, missis. Gone lars’ night to catch a big steamboat.” “How many of them went?” “Missis Brown, and Mars’ Albert, an’ de visitor-missis.” “Do you know their address? Where are you forwarding their letters to?” John laughed shrilly at this joke. “Carn’t say, please, missis. Post-missis wouldn’t send me de letters, now de fambly gone.” The Island is the home of elusive information. “What’s the matter with the woman, anyway?” said Courtesy, as she remounted the buggy. “I never can understand a woman that doesn’t know her vocation.” “What is her vocation?” asked Mr. Wise. “Ou, I don’t know,” giggled Courtesy.