I spent what I believe is generally called "a wretched night." It must have been about two in the morning when I finally consigned Barton and the bronze-haired girl, and my own ridiculous emotions, to the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely over on my side, dropped into a troubled, useless sort of sleep. I was awake again at six, roused by the vigorous carolling of a thrush, whose own love affairs were apparently in excellent order. George was still sleeping. I crawled out carefully so as not to disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river. There was the promise of another lovely day in the air, and the warm early-morning sunshine seemed to bathe one in a kind of comforting caress. By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on the bank, my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to what I believed to be a more or less philosophic resignation. After all, I said to myself, there was nothing to be gained by weeping and gnashing one's teeth. It was distinctly distressing that my only attempt at falling in love should have met with so disastrous a check; still, other people had had equally unpleasant experiences, and had managed to survive them. Was it not brave old George Wither who had summed up the situation in that delightfully reasonable couplet: For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back. It comforted me to persuade myself that I agreed with them. I found George outside the tent, shaving. "Hallo!" he said. "Feeling fitter?" "I am quite well this morning, thank you, George," I answered. "In that case," said he kindly, "you may cook breakfast." I unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather elusive slices round the frying-pan, I debated with myself as to whether I should mention the invitation to tea. I had no intention of going myself--that would be altogether too great a strain upon my philosophy--but as my adventure of the previous day was bound to come out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an afternoon's entertainment. Still, in my present state of mind, I shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be involved by my telling him. I felt that anything in the nature of chaff, even from George, would be quite unbearable. So, like Mrs. Grimmage, "I just went on cookin', and said nuffin'." It was the boy from Dunton's Boathouse who eventually supplied the solution to the problem, in the shape of the morning post. There was a letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an exclamation of disgust. "What's the matter?" I inquired. "My futile partner," said George, "is sick of a cold, and desires me to come up to town for the day. Fancy catching cold this weather!" "It suggests considerable skill," I admitted. "Are you going?"