r of thinking, he rose to shut his windows; then,
returning to his bed, threw himself down again. He stayed there till the
storm was over, in a kind of stupor; but when the boom of the retreating
thunder grew every minute less distinct, he rose. Then for the first
time he saw something white close by the door.

It was a note:

I have made a mistake. Please forgive me, and go away.--ANTONIA.

CHAPTER XXXII

WILDERNESS

When he had read this note, Shelton put it down beside his sleeve-links
on his dressing table, stared in the mirror at himself, and laughed. But
his lips soon stopped him laughing; he threw himself upon his bed and
pressed his face into the pillows. He lay there half-dressed throughout
the night, and when he rose, soon after dawn, he had not made his mind
up what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that he must not
meet Antonia.

At last he penned the following:

I have had a sleepless night with toothache, and think it best to run up
to the dentist at once. If a tooth must come out, the sooner the better.

He addressed it to Mrs. Dennant, and left it on his table. After doing
this he threw himself once more upon his bed, and this time fell into a
doze.

He woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly out. The likeness
of his going to that of Ferrand struck him. "Both outcasts now," he
thought.

He tramped on till noon without knowing or caring where he went; then,
entering a field, threw himself down under the hedge, and fell asleep.

He was awakened by a whirr. A covey of partridges, with wings glistening
in the sun, were straggling out across the adjoining field of mustard.
They soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges, and began to
call upon each other.

Some cattle had approached him in his sleep, and a beautiful bay cow,
with her head turned sideways, was snuffing at him gently, exhaling her
peculiar sweetness. She was as fine in legs and coat as any race-horse.
She dribbled at the corners of her black, moist lips; her eye was soft
and cynical. Breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field, rubbing
dry grasp-stalks in his fingers, Shelton had a moment's happiness--the
happiness of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements of
the fields. Why could not human beings let their troubles be as this cow
left the flies that clung about her eyes? He dozed again, and woke up
with a laugh, for this was what he dreamed:

He fancied he was in a r