But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. Dashing through the open door, he crossed the Old Bailey, plunged into a narrow court on the opposite side of the way, and was out of sight in a minute, baffling all pursuit. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. But they did what they could for her.
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