And Shelton laughed.

“The thing sickens me,” said he, “the whole snobbish, selfish business.  The place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastly comfortable.”

Crocker shook his head.

“It’s a splendid old place,” he said, his eyes fastening at last on Shelton’s boots.  “You know, old chap,” he stammered, “I think you—­you ought to take care!”

“Take care?  What of?”

Crocker pressed his arm convulsively.

“Don’t be waxy, old boy,” he said; “I mean that you seem somehow—­to be—­to be losing yourself.”

“Losing myself!  Finding myself, you mean!”

Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed.  Of what exactly was he thinking?  In Shelton’s heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a sort of aching.  Crocker broke the silence.

“I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night,” he said; “I feel very fit.  Don’t you really mean to come any further with me, Bird?”

And there was anxiety in his voice, as though Shelton were in danger of missing something good.  The latter’s feet had instantly begun to ache and burn.

“No!”? he said; “you know what I’m staying here for.”

Crocker nodded.

“She lives near here.  Well, then, I’ll say good-bye.  I should like to do another ten miles to-night.”

“My dear fellow, you’re tired and lame.”

Crocker chuckled.

“No,” he said; “I want to get on.  See you in London.  Good-bye!” and, gripping Shelton’s hand, he turned and limped away.

Shelton called after him:  “Don’t be an idiot:  You ’ll only knock yourself up.”

But the sole answer was the pale moon of Crocker’s face screwed round towards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick.

Shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched the oily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath the trees.  He felt relieved, yet sorry.  His thoughts were random, curious, half mutinous, half sweet.  That afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back from the river with Antonia across the Christchurch meadows, was vivid to his mind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aroma of his love.  Soon she would be his wife—­his wife!  The faces of the dons sprang up before him.  They had wives, perhaps.  Fat, lean, satirical, and compromising—­what was it that through diversity they had in common?  Cultured intolerance! . . .  Honour! . . .  A queer subject to discuss.  Honour!  The honour that made a fuss, and claimed its rights!  And Shelton smiled.  “As if man’s honour suffered when he’s injured!” And slowly he walked along the echoing, empty street to his room at the Bishop’s Head.  Next morning he received the following wire: 

     Thirty miles left eighteen hours heel bad but going
     strong Crocker