As it was, I longed so furiously to justify myself before Anne; to win, by some heroic measure, her good opinion, that the incentive of my passion bore me triumphantly over the first re-actions of inertia and protest.  I could never return to my old complacency, although the mechanical, accustomed habit of my thought had for me, as yet, no suggestion other than some change in the ideal and manner of my writing.  I thought vaguely of attempting some didactic drama to illustrate the tragic contrast between gentle and simple that had been so glaringly illuminated for me by recent experience.  Yet, even as I played with that idea, I recognised it as a device of my old self to allay my discontent.  I caught myself speculating on the promise of the play’s success, on the hope of winning new laurels as an earnest student of sociology.  I thrust that temptation from me with a sneer at my own inherent hypocrisy.

“But what else can you do?” argued my old self and my only reply was to bluster.  I bullied myself.  I treated myself as a foolish child.  The new spirit in me waved its feeble arms and shouted wildly of its splendid intentions.  I could be immensely valiant in the presence of this single listener, but the thought of Anne humiliated and subdued even this bright new spirit that had so amazingly taken possession of me.  I wondered if I might not submit my problem to her ask her what she would have me to do.  Nevertheless, I knew that if I would win her esteem, I must act on my own initiative.

My conflict and realisation of new desires had had, however, one salutary effect.  The depression of my earlier mood had fallen from me.  When I looked round at the widening pool of darkness that flowed and deepened about the undergrowth, I found that it produced no longer any impression of melancholy.

I lifted my head and marched forward with the resolution of a conqueror.

* * * * *

I was nearly clear of the wood when I saw Banks coming towards me.  He was carrying my suit-case, and behind him Racquet with a sprightly bearing of the tail that contradicted the droop of his head, followed with the body of a young rabbit.

“Loot from the Hall?” I asked when I came within speaking distance.

“Yes, he’s been poaching again,” Banks said, disregarding the application of my remark to the suit-case.  “Well, he can, now, for all I care.  He can have every blessed rabbit and pheasant in the Park if he likes.  I’m done with ’em.”

“Things gone badly?” I asked, stretching out my hand for the suit-case.

“I’ll carry it,” he said, ignoring my question.  “John had it ready packed when I got there.”

I remembered with a passing qualm that John had not been tipped, but put that thought away as a matter of no pressing importance.  “Had he?” I commented.  “Well, you’ve carried it half-way, now, I’ll carry it the other half.”

“I can do it,” he said.