When he had come back for good, this summer, he had looked forward to an easy, selfish life—­the sort of life certain men whom he had envied as a boy used to lead before the war.

Radmore knew, as every man who has lived to the age of thirty-two must know, that marriage brings with it certain cares, responsibilities, and troubles, and so he had deliberately made up his mind to avoid marriage, though he had been conscious the while that if he fell violently in love, then, perhaps, half knowing all the time that he was a fool, he might find himself pushed into marriage with some foolish girl, or what was perchance more likely, with a pretty widow.

To-night he realised with a sort of shame that there were moments—­he was glad that they were only moments—­when he felt uneasily yet strongly attracted to Enid Crofton, and that though he knew how selfish, how self-absorbed and, yes, how cruel she could be.  For well he knew she had been cruel to her elderly husband.  He was sorry now that she had come to Beechfield.  She had become an irritating, disturbing element in his life.

Radmore had looked at every eligible property within a radius of twenty miles of Old Place, but though some of them did not fall far short of the ideal he had in his mind, he hadn’t felt as if he wanted any of them.  They were too trim, too new—­in a word, too suburban.  Even the very old houses had been transformed by their owners much as The Trellis House had been transformed, into something to suit modern taste.  He told himself that he must begin looking again—­looking in real dead earnest, going farther afield.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he had driven on and on, almost mechanically, till suddenly they came to four cross-roads.  He drew up under a sign-post, jumped out and struck a match, and as he read the painted words he realised, with vexation, that he had gone a good bit out of his way.  There was nothing for it now but to go on till they struck the Portsmouth Road.  It was the quietest hour of the twenty-four, and it was very unlikely they would meet with anyone who could put them right.

And then, while going up a lane, which he knew to be at any rate in the right direction, he came to a park gate.  Just within was a lodge, and in one of the windows of the lodge there shone a light.  Again Radmore stopped the car and jumped out, Timmy still heavily asleep.

He went up to the door of the lodge and rapped with his knuckles.  It opened and revealed a young woman, fully dressed.  “What do you want?” she exclaimed, in a frightened voice.

“I’ve lost my way,” he said, “and seeing a light in your window, I ventured to knock.  I’ve no idea where I am—­I want to get to Beechfield.”

“Beechfield?  Why, you’re nigh forty miles from there,” she said, surprised.

“Can you tell me how I can get on to the Portsmouth Road?”

“Aye, I think I could do that; but stop your engine, please—­I’ve a little girl in here as is very ill.”