"Must," answered George sadly. "He says that a man is coming to see us about designing some pigsties. In the present state of architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity." "From your ideas of keeping the tent tidy," I observed, "you ought to be an authority on the subject." "I shall be down by the six-thirty," said George. "What will you do with yourself?" "I shall spend the day," I replied, "in trying to forget certain incidents which ought never to have happened." "If you forget them all," said George cynically, "you will have a busy time." My self-imposed programme, though excellent in theory, did not prove very successful in practice. George went off, grumbling, at about half-past eight, and, having washed up the breakfast-things, and tidied up the tent, I made an attempt to settle down to some black-and-white work, which an impatient editor had just reminded me was several days overdue. At the end of an hour all I had completed was a very passable likeness of Mrs. Congreve punting. I sat and stared at it in a kind of stupid trance. It seemed impossible to believe that my beautiful romance of yesterday was dead and buried in some obscure vestry. My whole nature rose up in passionate revolt against such an incredible idea. All the pseudo-resignation on which I had prided myself in the early morning deserted me in the hour of need. I began to recall the way she spoke, the charming manner in which the corners of her mouth turned up before she laughed, and the gracious atmosphere of tenderness and humour in which she seemed to live. At last, with a groan, I threw down the pencil, and got up from my chair. "Hang it," I said, "I can't stand this any longer!" I walked to the door of the tent, and looked out. Except for a couple of barges, emerging from the lock, the river was deserted. On the further bank, however, alongside of Dunton's Boathouse, a motor-car was just discharging a giggling cargo of flimsily dressed damsels and beflannelled youths. I glanced at them inhospitably, and then a sudden idea struck me. Why not walk over to Brooklands and watch the motor-racing? A savage four-mile-an-hour tramp across country was exactly the medicine I needed; and then there was always the chance of seeing somebody killed. I felt that a real, good sanguinary smash-up would appeal to me immensely in my present state of mind. Without wasting any further time I picked up my hat and stick, and then, after looking in at Williamson's bungalow, and asking him to keep an eye on our tent, I set off across the fields in the direction of Weybridge. It was not until I had reached and was walking up the main street that I remembered I had sent no message to Otter's Holt. After all, I had accepted the invitation to tea, and some sort of an excuse, however futile, was obviously needed. I turned in at the post office, and, after a moment's hesitation, wrote out the following telegram: