"You see," he went on, "I thought I'd found a girl who wasn't just like other girls. . . ." "I'm afraid I am," she said--"just." "I thought that you were brave and truthful and strong--and that you trusted me; and then I find you haven't the courage to stick to the way we planned; you haven't even the courage to wait for me and tell me you've changed your mind. You bolt off like a frightened rabbit and make friends with the first bounder who comes along. I was a fool to think I could help you. You don't need my help. Anybody else can help you just as well. Good-by--" "Good-by," she said, not looking up. And he perceived that she was weeping. Also that he was no longer angry. "Don't!" he said, "oh, don't! Do forgive me. I don't know what I've said. But I didn't mean it, whatever it was, if it's hurt you. I'll do just what you say. Shall I call that chap back?" She shook her head and hid her face in her hands. "Forgive me," he said again. "Oh, don't cry! I'm not worth it. Nothing's worth it. Charles, you brute, lie down." For Charles, in eager sympathy with beauty in distress, was leaping up in vain efforts to find and kiss the hidden face. "Don't scold him," she said. "I like him." And Edward could have worshiped her for the words. "And, oh," she said, after a minute, "don't scold me, either! I'm so frightfully tired and everything's been so hateful. I thought you'd understand, and that if you cared to find me, you would." "How could I? You sent no address." "I did. On the handkerchief. . . . But I suppose you couldn't read it." "And still," he said, but quite gently now, "I don't understand--" "Don't you? Don't you see, I thought when you'd had time to think it over you'd be sorry and wish yourself well out of it, and yet feel obliged to go on. And I thought how horrid for you. And how much easier for you if you just thought I'd changed my mind. And then I set out to walk to Seaford and take the train. And then my shoes gave out, and I was so awfully afraid of aunt coming along that way, so that when Mr. Schultz came along it seemed a perfect godsend." "So that's his foreign and unhappy name?" said Edward. "How did he come to tell it to you?" "He had to," she said. "I borrowed ten pounds of him. I couldn't have gone to Claridge's without money, you know." "Why Claridge's?" "It's the only hotel that I know. And I had to have his name and address to send it back." "May I send it back this afternoon?" Edward asked. "Yes--" "And you take back all you said in the letter? You don't mean it?" "Not if you didn't want me to." "And it wasn't really only because you thought I. . . ." "Of course. At least. . . ." "Well, then," said Mr. Basingstoke, happily, "it never happened. I fetched you as we arranged. We go on as we arranged. And Mr. Schultz is only a bad dream to which I owe ten pounds." "And you're not angry? Then will you lend me some money to buy a hat, and then we will go straight on to London."