The remainder of March was a confused bad dream.  Both Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins were shattered; try as they would not to, both felt extraordinarily guilty; and when on the morning of the 30th they did finally get off there was no exhilaration about the departure, no holiday feeling at all.

“We’ve been too good—­much too good,” Mrs. Wilkins kept on murmuring as they walked up and down the platform at Victoria, having arrived there an hour before they need have, “and that’s why we feel as though we’re doing wrong.  We’re brow-beaten—­we’re not any longer real human beings.  Real human beings aren’t ever as good as we’ve been.  Oh”—­she clenched her thin hands—­“to think that we ought to be so happy now, here on the very station, actually starting, and we’re not, and it’s being spoilt for us just simply because we’ve spoilt them!  What have we done—­what have we done, I should like to know,” she inquired of Mrs. Arbuthnot, patiently pacing, did not ask who she meant by them, because she knew.  Mrs. Wilkins meant their husbands, persisting in her assumption that Frederick was as indignant as Mellersh over the departure of his wife, whereas Frederick did not even know his wife had gone.

Mrs. Arbuthnot, always silent about him, had said nothing of this to Mrs. Wilkins.  Frederick went too deep into her heart for her to talk about him.  He was having an extra bout of work finishing another of those dreadful books, and had been away practically continually the last few weeks, and was away when she left.  Why should she tell him beforehand?  Sure as she so miserably was that he would have no objection to anything she did, she merely wrote him a note and put it on the hall-table ready for him if and when he should come home.  She said she was going for a month’s holiday as she needed a rest and she had not had one for so long, and that Gladys, the efficient parlourmaid, had orders to see to his comforts.  She did not say where she was going; there was no reason why she should; he would not be interested, he would not care.

The day was wretched, blustering and wet; the crossing was atrocious, and they were very sick.  But after having been very sick, just to arrive at Calais and not be sick was happiness, and it was there that the real splendour of what they were doing first began to warm their benumbed spirits.  It got hold of Mrs. Wilkins first, and spread from her like a rose-coloured flame over her pale companion.  Mellersh at Calais, where they restored themselves with soles because of Mrs. Wilkins’s desire to eat a sole Mellersh wasn’t having—­Mellersh at Calais had already begun to dwindle and seem less important.  None of the French porters knew him; not a single official at Calais cared a fig for Mellersh.  In Paris there was no time to think of him because their train was late and they only just caught the Turin train at the Gare de Lyons; and by the afternoon of the next day when they got into Italy, England, Frederick, Mellersh, the vicar, the poor, Hampstead, the club, Shoolbred, everybody and everything, the whole inflamed sore dreariness, had faded to the dimness of a dream.