He passed a fortnight at the Bishop’s Head, waiting for the end of his probation, and the end seemed long in coming.  To be so near Antonia, and as far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever.  Each day he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near Holm Oaks, on the chance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, and the chance but slender.  She never came.  After spending the afternoons like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer feeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar.  Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he had one, and sat down to write to her.  These letters of his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight.  They were remarkable for failing to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything.  He made the discovery that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel, except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia’s ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile.  All the world was too engaged in planning decency.

Absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil of Commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of salmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne.  In preparation for his visit to Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from London.  With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran as follows: 

Imperial Peacock hotel, Folkestone,

June 20. 
My dear sir,

Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been so bothered that I have felt no taste for writing; when I have the time, I have some curious stories to tell you.  Once again I have encountered that demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps.  Being occupied all day and nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worries and next to no profit, I have no chance to look after my things.  Thieves have entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box.  I am once again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to make that figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties.  You see, I am not lucky.  Since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune I have had was to tumble on a man like you.  Excuse me for not writing more at this moment.  Hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionately pressing your hand,
          I am,
               Always your devoted
                         Louis Ferrand.

Upon reading this letter Shelton had once more a sense of being exploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrote the following reply: 

Bishops head hotel, Oxford,