Feeling he was doing her an injustice, he admitted that she had made much progress under his guidance in her knowledge of flowers.

’But how did he treat her in the end, despite all her kindnesses?  Shamefully, shamefully, shamefully!’ and getting up from his chair Father Oliver walked across the room, and when he turned he drew his hand across his eyes.  The clock struck twelve.  ’I shall be awake at dawn,’ he said, ‘with all this story running in my head,’ and he stopped on the threshold of his bedroom, frightened at the sight of his bed.  But he had reached the stint of his sufferings, and that morning lay awake, hardly annoyed at all by the black-birds’ whistling, contentedly going over the mistakes he had made—­a little surprised, however, that the remembrance of them did not cause him more pain.  At last he fell asleep, and when his housekeeper knocked at his door and he heard her saying that it was past eight, he leaped out of bed cheerily, and sang a stave of song as he shaved himself, gashing his chin, however, for he could not keep his attention fixed on his chin, but must peep over the top of the glass, whence he could see his garden, and think how next year he would contrive a better arrangement of colour.  It was difficult to stop the bleeding, and he knew that Catherine would grumble at the state he left the towels in (he should not have used his bath-towel); but these were minor matters.  He was happier than he had been for many a day.

The sight of strawberries on his breakfast-table pleased him; the man who drove ten miles to see him yesterday called, and he shared his strawberries with him in abundant spirit.  The sunlight was exciting, the lake called him, and it was pleasant to stride along, talking of the bridge (at last there seemed some prospect of getting one).  The intelligence of this new inspector filled him with hope, and he expatiated in the advantages of the bridge and many other things.  Nor did his humour seem to depend entirely on the companionship of his visitor.  It endured long after his visitor had left him, and very soon he began to think that his desire to go away for a long holiday was a passing indisposition of mind rather than a need.  His holiday could be postponed to the end of the year; there would be more leisure then, and he would be better able to enjoy his holiday than he would be now.

His changing mind interested him, and he watched it like a vane, unable to understand how it was that, notwithstanding his restlessness, he could not bring himself to go away.  Something seemed to keep him back, and he was not certain that the reason he stayed was because the Government had not yet sent a formal promise to build the bridge.  He could think of no other reason for delaying in Garranard; he certainly wanted change.  And then Nora’s name came into his mind, and he meditated for a moment, seeing the colour of her hair and the vanishing expression of her eyes.  Sometimes he could see her hand,