pable, in
my opinion, of deceiving himself, he was no impostor, if I knew him, and
it was disappointing to see him take so kindly to the part. I preferred
not to talk about it on the road to Richmond, which we took on foot in
the small hours of the afternoon. A weeping thaw had reduced the frozen
ruts to mere mud piping, of that consistency which grips a tyre like
teeth. But it was impossible not to compare this heavy tramp with our
sparkling spin through Bushey Park. And the hot and cold fits of poor
Guy Berridge afforded an inevitable analogy.

"I can't understand him," I was saying. "I can understand a fellow
falling in love and even falling out again. But Berridge flies from one
extreme to the other like a ball in a hard rally."

"And it's not the way he's built, Gilly! That's what sticks with me. You
may be quite sure he's not the first breeder of sinners who began by
shivering on the brink of matrimony. It's a desperate plunge to take. I
should be terrified myself; but then I'm not one of nature's faithful
hounds. If it wasn't for the canine fidelity of this good Berridge, I
shouldn't mind his thinking and shrinking like many a better man."

We were cutting off the last corner before Richmond by following the
asphalt foot-path behind St. Stephen's Church. Here we escaped the mud
at last; the moist asphalt shone with a cleanly lustre; and our
footsteps threw an echo ahead, between the two long walls, until it
mixed with the tramp of approaching feet, and another couple advanced
into view. They were man and girl; but I did not at first identify the
radiant citizen in the glossy hat, with his arm thrust through the
lady's, as Guy Berridge homeward bound with his once beloved. It was a
groan from Uvo that made me look again, and next moment the four of us
blocked the narrow gangway.

"The very man we were talking about!" cried Berridge without looking at
me. His hat had been ironed, his weak chin burnished by a barber's
shave, the strong moustache clipped and curled. But a sporadic glow
marked either cheek-bone, and he had forgotten to return our salute.

"Yes, Mr. Delavoye!" said Miss Hemming with arch severity. "What have
you been doing with my white peacock?"

She had a brown fringe, very crisply curled as a rule; but the damp air
had softened and improved it; and perhaps her young gentleman's recovery
had carried the good work deeper, for she was a girl who sometimes gave
herself airs, but there seemed no ro