But I still saw that face haunting the transparent gloom. A béret cap had surmounted it, a blouse _en grosse toile_ had clothed the shoulders below. Monsieur Arnaud, if it was he, was dressed as an _ouvrier_ or a sailor dresses. And he was young, sunbrowned, grave, beautiful. The car backed and turned. There was a grating as the clutch was slipped in, and then the engine dropped to a steady purr. The wrought-iron gates started out in the glare, the red tail-lights diminished. I was dimly aware that Madge said something to me, but I remained motionless where I stood. I came to myself to find myself alone. Sunbrowned, grave, beautiful, young! And he called himself Arnaud! I have told you of that list of names with which his diary began. Arnaud was not among them. But Arnold was. He had simply Gallicised it, and as Arnaud he was seeking me. Then I felt my sleeve timidly touched. His voice came from behind me, a voice with a charming, uncertain timbre. "George--I say, George--who was that?" III I will make a shameful confession. My heart had sunk like lead. I had wanted a holiday from him. That very morning I had thought I had secured it, had blithely planned my new and cheerful work. And here he was, with his hand on my sleeve. He repeated his words in a whisper. "George, who was that?" Slowly I turned. "It _is_ you?" "Yes." "How did you know I was here?" "I saw your name in the Visitors' List." "Tell me what I can do for you." He fell a little back. "George," he faltered, "why this tone?" I refused to admit at once that I was ashamed. "We can't stop talking here," I said. "Where are you staying?" "Out at St Briac." "Then I suppose you're walking back? The last tram went long ago." "It's only six miles." "Then wait here, and I'll walk part of the way with you." They were still merrily dancing in the house, but I managed to get to my own room unseen. I put on an ordinary jacket and cap and descended again. He was not where I had left him. He had skirted the lauristinus bushes, and from a safe distance was gazing into the house. Oh, inopportune--inopportune and undesirable in the last degree! "Ready?" I said. Reluctantly he turned away his eyes and followed me past the cars. We passed out of the drive and into the dark tree-planted lanes of St Enogat. A rutty little ruelle runs along the side of St Enogat Church and makes a short cut to the high road. We passed the church without exchanging a word. At last, where the street widened, I broke the silence. "So you're Arnaud now?" "Yes," he said in a low voice. "The athlete people are talking about?" He muttered that there were lots of Arnauds. "You're a Frenchman anyway?" "I've got to be something." "Are you going to stay a Frenchman?" "I don't know yet." We continued our walk. The little white-painted Grand Stand of the Stade glimmered over the hedge on our right when next he spoke. I saw his glance at it.