But Mr. Rickman was young, and youth’s healthy instinct urged him to vigorous exercise as the best means of shaking off his misery.  He crossed the road that runs along the top of Harcombe Hill and made for the cliffs in a south-easterly direction across the fields.  He then kept along the coast-line, dipping into Harcombe valley, climbing again to Easton Down.  Here the coast was upheaved into terraces of grey limestone, topped by a layer of sand riddled with rabbit holes.  Before one of these two young hawks were watching, perched on a projecting boulder.  So intent was their gaze and they so motionless that the air seemed to stand still and wait for the sweep of their wings.  Mr. Rickman, whom youth made reckless, lay flat on his stomach and peered over the edge of the cliff.  He was fascinated, breathlessly absorbed.  He pressed the turf a little closer in his eagerness, and so loosened a large stone that rolled down, starting a cataract of sand and rubble.  He had just time to throw himself back sideways, as the hollow fringe of turf gave way and plunged down the cliff-side.  So far from taking his escape with becoming seriousness, he amused himself by trying to feel as he would have felt if he had actually gone over the cliff.  He found that his keenest emotion was a thrill of horror, as he imagined Miss Harden a possible spectator of the ridiculous evolutions performed by his person in its passage through the air.

After an hour of dipping and climbing he reached a small fishing village.  Here he dined and rested, and it was mid-afternoon before he turned again towards Harmouth.  There was no chance of missing his way; he had nothing to do but follow the coast-line as he had done before.

There were signs in the valley of the white fog that sometimes, even in April, comes in before sunset; already a veil of liquid air was drawn across the hills, and when he crossed Easton Down (if it was Easton Down) again the sea’s face was blurred with mist.

As he went on westwards the mist kept pace with him, gradually diminishing the view he had hoped to see.  And as it shifted and closed round him, his movements became labyrinthine, then circular.

And now his view was all foreground; he was simply walking through circles of moor, enclosed by walls of fine grey fog.  He passed through these walls, like a spirit, into smaller and smaller circles; then, hopelessly bewildered, he stopped, turned, and walked in what he took to be a contrary direction, feeling that the chance of going over the cliff-side lent an agreeable excitement to a pastime that threatened to become monotonous.  This was assuming the cliff-side to be somewhere near; and he was beginning to feel that it might be anywhere, under his feet for all he knew, when the fog lifted a little from the high ground, and he saw that he had lost his bearings altogether.  He had been going round and round through these circles without returning to the point he started from.  He went forward less cautiously in a larger round, and then he suddenly stood still.  He was not alone.