The darkness had almost fallen when he forced himself to leave the spot.  But—­reward for going while yet a trace of dusky light remained—­he had not reached the bottom of the hill road, up which his car had roared an hour before, when he saw something fallen there which made him pull the motor up upon its throbbing cylinders.  He jumped out and ran to rescue what had fallen.  It was the bunch of rose haws he had so carefully denuded of thorns, and which she had worn upon her breast for at least a short time before she lost it.  She had not thrown it away intentionally, he was sure of that.  If she had she would not have flung it contemptuously into the middle of the road for him to see.

He put it into the pocket of his coat, where it made a queer bulge, but he could not risk losing it by trusting it to the seat beside him.  Until he had won something that had been longer hers, it was a treasure not to be lost.

Four miles toward town he passed the riding party and exchanged a fire of gay salutations with them.  When he had left them behind he could not reach home too soon.  He hurried to his rooms, hunted out a receptacle of silver and crystal and filled it with water, placed the bunch of rose haws in it and set the whole on his reading-table, under the electric drop-light, where it made a spot of brilliant colour.

He had an invitation for the evening; he had cared little to accept it when it had been given him; he was sorry now that he had not refused it.  As the hour drew near, his distaste grew upon him, but there was no way in which he could withdraw without giving disappointment and even offence.  He went forth, therefore, with reluctance, to join precisely such a party as he had many times made one of with pleasure and elation.  To-night, however, he found the greatest difficulty in concealing his boredom, and he more than once caught himself upon the verge of actual discourtesy, because of his tendency to become absent-minded and let the merry-making flow by him without taking part in it.

Altogether, it was with a strong sense of relief and freedom that he at last escaped from what had seemed to him an interminable period of captivity to the uncongenial moods and manners of other people.  He opened the door of his rooms with a sense of having returned to a place where he could be himself—­his new self—­that strange new self who singularly failed to enjoy the companionship of those who had once seemed the most satisfying of comrades.

The first thing upon which his eager glance fell was the bunch of scarlet rose haws under the softly illumining radiance of the drop-light.  His eyes lighted, his lips broke into a smile—­the lips which had found it, all evening, so hard to smile with anything resembling spontaneity.

Hat in hand, he addressed his treasure:  “I’ve come back to stay with you!” he said.

CHAPTER VI