“Thank you,” said Gaspard, searching his face with his gaunt and wistful gaze. “Thank you all the same, I know you mean it, but I shall camp tonight”—he paused a moment or two as if gathering strength to continue—“at the bungalow. You see,” he continued, hurrying over the words, “I am a bit tired, I have a lot of things to do, I am in no shape to appear anywhere, I must get cleaned up. I’m a perfect savage, Mrs. Pelham. I have been living among savages, I have become dehumanised. I must be alone tonight.” He raised his hat, bowed with his old grace, and disappeared into the bush. “God in Heaven!” breathed the Colonel. “What a wreck! Poor devil! Poor devil! What a wreck!” “Horrible!” echoed his wife. “Ghastly! Horrible! Disgusting!” The Colonel caught her up quickly. “Disgusting? Well, that’s rather hard, isn’t it, Augusta? Horrible, yes. Ghastly, too. Poor soul! My heart aches for him.” “You are really most trying, Edgar,” burst out his wife. “Have you no eyes? Can you see nothing? Disgusting is the only word.” “Why, my dear!” began the Colonel in astonishment. “Oh, I have no patience with you,” replied his wife. “Can’t you see? That—that woman! Those children! And to flaunt that all in our faces here, who knew his wife! Horrible! Disgusting! And yet you asked him to our house! You remember the rumours of three years ago? You were keen then that we should give him the benefit of the doubt. Well, there is doubt no longer.” Her laugh was hard and scornful. “But, my dear Augusta, why imagine the worst? Why not give the man a chance? It may be—there may be some satisfactory explanation.” “Oh, you are quite impossible! Surely one look at that—that—_menage_ is enough to sicken anybody.” “What?” said the Colonel in a shocked voice. “Do you think that the woman is not his wife?” “Oh, Edgar, you are indeed impossible. Let us go home. I am quite ill. Let us go home. Oh, why did he come back? How could he bear to come back to this place, to his old friends, to his son? Why should he curse that boy with his presence, and with all this ghastly shame of his?” “My God! What will Paul do, Augusta?” “Paul!” exclaimed his wife. “Good heavens, Edgar! Paul? What can he do?” “He is only a boy,” replied the Colonel. “A boy? He is twelve years old, nearly thirteen, and in many ways with a man’s mind and a man’s heart. What will happen, the Lord only knows! The whole thing is terrible beyond words. Edgar, we must think and think quickly about this. And whatever happens one thing is quite certain, that we must keep out of this mess. That is quite clear. No more of Pine Croft for us!” His wife’s lips had assumed that thin line that the Colonel had come to recognise as indicative of the ultimate and final thing in decision. “But, Augusta, we have got to be decent to the poor devil,” said her husband.