“Dear old boy, why the deuce have you gone away to the end of the earth without letting me know?  I called at your place this evening, and was amazed at the sight of the address which your evil-eyed woman showed me—­looking as if she feared I should steal it.  I wanted particularly to see you.  How long are you going to stay down yonder?  Rosamund and I start for our honeymoon on Thursday next, and we shall probably be away for a couple of months, in Tyrol.  Does this astonish you?  It oughtn’t to, seeing that you’ve done your best to bring it about.  Yes, Rosamund and I are going to be married, with the least possible delay.  I’ll tell you all the details some day—­ though there’s very little to tell that you don’t know.  Congratulate me on having come to my senses.  How precious near I was to making a tremendous fool of myself.  It’s you I have to thank, old man.  Of course, as you saw, I should never have cared for any one but Rosamund, and it’s pretty sure that she would never have been happy with any one but me.  I wanted you to be a witness at our wedding, and now you’ve bolted, confound you!  Write to my London address, and it will be forwarded.”

Will thrust the letter into his pocket, went out into the street, and walked to the hotel through heavy rain, without thinking to open his umbrella.

Next morning, the sky was clear again, the sunny air fresh as that of spring.  Will rose earlier than usual, and set out on an excursion.  He took train to Hendaye, the little frontier town, at the mouth of the Bidassoa, crossed the river in a boat, stepped on to Spanish soil, and climbed the hill on which stands Fuenterabbia.

Later he passed again to the French shore, and lunched at the hotel.  Then he took a carriage, and drove up the gorge of Bidassoa, enjoying the wild mountain scenery as much as he had enjoyed anything in his life.  The road bridged the river; it brought him into Spain once more, and on as far as to the Spanish village of Vera, where he lingered in the mellowing afternoon.  All round him were green slopes of the Pyrenees, green with pasture and with turf, with bracken, with woods of oak.  There came by a yoke of white oxen, their heads covered with the wonted sheepskin, and on their foreheads the fringe of red wool tassels; he touched a warm flank with his palm, and looked into the mild, lustrous eyes of the beast that passed near him.

“Vera, Vera,” he repeated to himself, with pleasure in the name.  He should remember Vera when he was back again behind the counter in Fulham Road.  He had never thought to see the Pyrenees, never dreamt of looking at Spain.  It was a good holiday.

“Vera, Vera,” he again murmured.  How came the place to be so called?  The word seemed to mean true.  He mused upon it.

He dined at the village inn, then drove at dusk back to Hendaye, down the great gorge; crags and precipices, wooded ravines and barren heights glooming magnificently under a sky warm with afterglow; beside him the torrent leapt and roared, and foamed into whiteness.