“Don’t make yourself miserable with false analogies,” said Cahusac, philosophically. “I’m sick of the rails and I want to get off them. For that reason I asked what your plans were--I meant for the immediate future.” “I shall give up the bar,” said Hugh, with a shudder, “at least criminal work. I said I was a ruined man. That’s why.” “You persist in misunderstanding,” said the other with a smile. “You forget I came to ask a favour--I am thinking of going abroad for a holiday, taking it now instead of in the inevitable August. Wife doesn’t want to go. I am companionless. Will you take pity on me?” Hugh’s impulsive nature responded to all the motives of the kindly act. He seized Cahusac’s hand. “I won’t thank you. There are some deeds of friendship beyond thanks. I’ll come with you all the more gladly now that I have told you. But I should like to see the Merriams before we start.” Cahusac lifted his eyebrows. “You haven’t seen them yet?” Hugh received discomfort from his glance. He explained vaguely. “Take your own time,” said Cahusac, again rising to go. “Things are slack just now. I can get away pretty easily.” The Good Samaritan departed, and Hugh remained for some time speculative at the window, looking out into the sunshine. He had known Cahusac and his wife fairly intimately for several years. They were friends, too, of the Merriams. But hitherto he had shrouded his private life from them in his customary reserve. He wondered now at the indiscreet expansiveness of which he had been guilty. The secret was safe enough with Cahusac. But would he not have betrayed it, just the same, to a less scrupulous friend, who had come to him that morning with a sympathetic face? The thought gave qualms. The past year had loosened his character. The past month had played havoc with it; had weakened, too, his firm grasp of logical issues. Cahusac had enabled his mind to gain fresh hold. He faced the consequences of Irene’s action with the pain of a great dismay. The physical longing for air and sun and forgetfulness in quick motion lured him out of doors. He rode hard through Sunnington and along the Heath Road until he reached the open country. He traversed many miles that day, going along lonely stretches of clear road at racing speed which brought the thrill into his veins and the lust of physical life that floods thought. He was in that condition of being which, in a more elemental age, would have carried him baresark into the joy of battle: modern civilisation substitutes the bicycle. Perhaps, after all, we are not more grotesque than our ancestors.