He waved his arms about. He was pitifully ridiculous. His face puckered as an ill-treated little boy’s might do. This time it wasn’t just the pathetic twinge that had broken his voice before; he found himself to his own amazement on the verge of loud, undignified, childish weeping. He was weeping passionately and noisily; he was over the edge of it, and it was too late to snatch himself back. The shame which could not constrain him, overcame him. A preposterous upward gesture of the hands expressed his despair. And abruptly this unhappy man of letters turned from her and fled, the most grief-routed of creatures, whooping and sobbing along a narrow pathway through the trees. §8 He left behind him an exceedingly distressed and astonished lady. She had stood with her eyes opening wider and wider at this culminating exhibition. “But Mr. Brumley!” she had cried at last. “Mr. Brumley!” He did not seem to hear her. And now he was running and stumbling along very fast through the trees, so that in a few minutes he would be out of sight. Dismay came with the thought that he might presently go out of sight altogether. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then with a swift decision and a firm large grasp of the hand, she gathered up her black skirts and set off after him along the narrow path. She ran. She ran lightly, with a soft rhythmic fluttering of white and black. The long crêpe bands she wore in Sir Isaac’s honour streamed out behind her. “But Mr. Brumley,” she panted unheard. “Mister Brumley!” He went from her fast, faster than she could follow, amidst the sun-dappled pine stems, and as he went he made noises between bellowing and soliloquy, heedless of any pursuit. All she could hear was a heart-wringing but inexpressive “Wa, wa, wooh, wa, woo,” that burst from him ever and again. Through a more open space among the trees she fancied she was gaining upon him, and then as the pines came together again and were mingled with young spruces, she perceived that he drew away from her more and more. And he went round a curve and was hidden, and then visible again much further off, and then hidden——. She attempted one last cry to him, but her breath failed her, and she dropped her pace to a panting walk. Surely he would not go thus into the high road! It was unendurable to think of him rushing out into the high road—blind with sorrow—it might be into the very bonnet of a passing automobile. She passed beyond the pines and scanned the path ahead as far as the stile. Then she saw him, lying where he had flung himself, face downward among the bluebells. “Oh!” she whispered to herself, and put one hand to her heart and drew nearer. She was flooded now with that passion of responsibility, with that wild irrational charity which pours out of the secret depths of a woman’s stirred being. She came up to him so lightly as to be noiseless. He did not move, and for a moment she remained looking at him. Then she said once more, and very gently—