I stared at him. I hadn’t the faintest idea what I had meant. The distant roar still filled the room like a menace. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sounds mad....” “Come along,” the old gentleman rapped out, and darted through the window. I have a confused picture of Guy towering over Napier and Venice with a brimming glass in his hand, of Hilary staring whitely after us. Like a young lover, I see Hilary at that moment. I caught the General up as he was starting-off Guy’s car. “After her, boy. After her. Feel sick, her going like that. Feel sick.” “Can’t catch her in this car, sir.” “We’ll see. Try, anyway. Must catch her. Must beg her forgiveness.” He looked at me as the car started off. He was smiling. Those clever darting eyes were wet. Then Hilary, hatless like ourselves, jumped on to the footboard and into the back. “What’s this, Maurice?” “After her, man. Iris suddenly thrown her hand in. Listen to that hell’s own racket!” Sir Maurice rushed that ancient Rolls breakneck up the winding drive. From the distance came that menacing roar. “Can do seventy-six if you like,” I heard the husky whisper above the roar, I saw the dancing tawny curls through the darkness, boy’s head, curly head, white and tiger-tawny.... “Can’t catch her in this,” I cried again. Hilary was leaning forward from behind, his chin by my shoulder. He whispered through the rushing air: “Afraid of her happiness in the end. You beat her, Maurice. You beat her, you and your mouldy old England. And your son wasn’t worthy of her love. Good God, he cared whether we respected her or not! She wasn’t enough for him as she was. Maurice, it’s on your head, all this. She’ll be in despair. You’ve got to catch her.” We swept headlong round a corner. We were on the crown of the several small slopes that I remembered ascending from Harrod’s to Sutton Marle. “There!” yelled Sir Maurice. And he laughed like an excited boy. “We’ll catch her yet.” Far down the slope, winding, killing the darkness, rushed the lights of the Hispano. Sir Maurice kept his thumb on the button of the electric-horn, and we drove headlong down that slope with a wild cry of warning to Iris. “She can’t hear!” I yelled. “Go on, let her know we’re here!” yelled Hilary. The General’s silver hair waved frantically in the wind. He was driving like a madman. He was smiling. The two great lights ahead lit the countryside. Then they seemed to shorten, and Harrod’s stood like a pillar of light against the darkness. The silver leaves, the giant trunk ... in the lights of Iris’s car. The stork screamed hoarsely, once, twice, thrice.... “Iris!” Hilary sobbed. “Stop her, man! Stop her! Not that----” “Iris, not that!” Sir Maurice whispered. “Child, not that!”