"Look round a bit, old chap," he advised, "and think. Don't do anything in a hurry. You're young, shockingly young for any effective work. You can't teach before you understand. Life isn't such a sink of iniquity as you young prigs at Oxford professed to find it. See the best of it and the worst. You'll be able to put your finger on the weak spots quick enough." But the process of looking around wearied Macheson excessively--or was it something else which had crept into his blood to his immense unsettlement? There were several philanthropic schemes started by himself and his college friends in full swing now, in or about London. To each of them he paid some attention, studying its workings, listening to the enthusiastic outpourings of his quondam friends and doing his best to catch at least some spark of their interest. But it was all very unsatisfactory. Deep down in his heart he felt the insistent craving for some fiercer excitement, some mode of life which should make larger and deeper demands upon his emotional temperament. A heroic war would have appealed to him instantly--for that, he realized with a sigh, he was born many centuries too late. For weeks he wandered about London in a highly unsatisfied condition. Then one afternoon, in the waning of a misty October day, he came face to face with Wilhelmina in Bond Street. She was stepping into her motor brougham when she saw him. He had no opportunity for escape, even if he had desired it. Her tired lips were suddenly curved into a most bewildering smile. She withdrew her hand from her muff and offered it to him--for the first time. "So you are still in London, Mr. Macheson," she said. "I am very glad to see you." The words were unlike her, the tone was such as he had never heard her use. Do what he could, he could not help the answering light which sprang into his own eyes. "I am still in London," he said. "I thought you were to go to Marienbad?" "I left it until it was too late," she answered. "Walk a little way with me," she added abruptly. "I should like to talk to you." "If I may," he answered simply. She dismissed the brougham, and they moved on. "I am sorry," she began, "that I was rude to you when you brought that girl to me. You did exactly what was nice and kind, and I was hateful. Please forgive me." "Of course," he answered simply. "I felt sure that when you thought it over you would understand." "You are not going back--to Thorpe?" she asked. "Not at present, at any rate," he answered. She looked up at him with a faint smile. "You can have the barn," she said. His eyes answered her smile, but his tone was grave. "I have given that up--for a little time, at any rate," he said. "I mean that particular sort of work." "My villagers must content themselves with Mr. Vardon, then," she remarked. He nodded. "Perhaps," he said, "ours was a mistaken enterprise. I am not sure. But at any rate, so far as Thorpe is concerned, I have abandoned it for the present."