"Well, I don't know what she thinks of me yet, but I do know very well what she's _got_ to think of me. She's got to think all the world of me--if I break every limb of my body making her do it. "I'd a sort of feeling it was right to go in that old automobile. "Say what you like, there's a Guidance...." He smiled confidentially at the darkness as if they shared a secret. CHAPTER THE FOURTH MR. BRITLING IN SOLILOQUY Section 1 Very different from the painful contentment of the bruised and broken Mr. Direck was the state of mind of his unwounded host. He too was sleepless, but sleepless without exaltation. The day had been too much for him altogether; his head, to borrow an admirable American expression, was "busy." How busy it was, a whole chapter will be needed to describe.... The impression Mr. Britling had made upon Mr. Direck was one of indefatigable happiness. But there were times when Mr. Britling was called upon to pay for his general cheerful activity in lump sums of bitter sorrow. There were nights--and especially after seasons of exceptional excitement and nervous activity--when the reckoning would be presented and Mr. Britling would welter prostrate and groaning under a stormy sky of unhappiness--active insatiable unhappiness--a beating with rods. The sorrows of the sanguine temperament are brief but furious; the world knows little of them. The world has no need to reckon with them. They cause no suicides and few crimes. They hurry past, smiting at their victim as they go. None the less they are misery. Mr. Britling in these moods did not perhaps experience the grey and hopeless desolations of the melancholic nor the red damnation of the choleric, but he saw a world that bristled with misfortune and error, with poisonous thorns and traps and swampy places and incurable blunderings. An almost insupportable remorse for being Mr. Britling would pursue him--justifying itself upon a hundred counts.... And for being such a Britling!... Why--he revived again that bitter question of a thousand and one unhappy nights--why was he such a fool? Such a hasty fool? Why couldn't he look before he leapt? Why did he take risks? Why was he always so ready to act upon the supposition that all was bound to go well? (He might as well have asked why he had quick brown eyes.) Why, for instance, hadn't he adhered to the resolution of the early morning? He had begun with an extremity of caution.... It was a characteristic of these moods of Mr. Britling that they produced a physical restlessness. He kept on turning over and then turning over again, and sitting up and lying back, like a martyr on a gridiron....