"The secret might come out that way too. No, Furlonger, if you are wise you'll let me alone." He drew back a little as he spoke--the friendly reaction was passing. He had always hated Janey's brothers, because he was jealous of her love for them; and now, though the original reason was gone, he still hated them for the cause of that reason--for what he believed was the foundation of Janey's love, their physical strength and fitness. However, there was not much of either to be seen in Leonard now. He swayed pitifully as he stood there facing Quentin, and though his lips moved, no sounds came past them. Then he turned away. Lowe watched him stagger across the field. He expected him to fall every minute, except once, when for some strange reason he expected him to turn back and confront him again. But he neither fell nor turned. He stumbled blindly on, then disappeared into the next field. For a moment or two Quentin stood alone in the great meadow, under the hurrying sky. The scent of hay no longer blew to him wistfully, but triumphantly, like the fragrance of festal wine. He spread out his arms, and stood there in the quivering, scented hush, while the wind cooled his damp forehead, and ruffled the hair back from it tenderly. Then he turned homewards from Cowsanish. But he had not gone far before he altered his direction. He struck again southwards, through the grass lanes that wind past Old Surrey Hall, towards Shovelstrode. He would lay his thankfulness, his deliverance, his redemption, at Tony's feet--at the feet of the woman who symbolised them all. CHAPTER VI AND I ALSO DREAMED Behind the stage at the Bechstein Hall one could hear the applause that burst from the auditorium. Nigel listened hungrily. He wondered whether those hands would clap and those feet stamp when it was his turn to leave the platform, his violin under his arm. He stood leaning against the wall, his fiddle already out of its case, but still wrapped tenderly in silks. The little group of girls and men who were whispering together not far off sent him from time to time glances of mingled curiosity and admiration. There was a big difference between the convict with his close-cropped hair and disreputable clothes, and this young man in orthodox evening dress, whose hair was brushed in a heavy, shining mass from his forehead, to hang over his ears and neck in the approved musician's style. Nigel had been unable to resist this rather primitive piece of swank--besides, it was symbolical, it marked the contrast between what he had been in the days of his shame, and what he was now in the days of regeneration. The girl who had just come off the stage stared at him half amused, half envying. "Do you come on soon?" "Yes--after this next thing." "Just a little bit nervous?" He nodded.