jam, and got away as soon as might be. They say that in delirium tremens
you see a fixed object, preferably dark, which suddenly changes shape
and position. Jon saw the fixed object; it had dark eyes and passably
dark hair, and changed its position, but never its shape. The
knowledge that between him and that object there was already a secret
understanding (however impossible to understand) thrilled him so that
he waited feverishly, and began to copy out his poem--which of course
he would never dare to--show her--till the sound of horses' hoofs roused
him, and, leaning from his window, he saw her riding forth with Val. It
was clear that she wasted no time, but the sight filled him with grief.
He wasted his. If he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, he might
have been asked to go too. And from his window he sat and watched them
disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge
once more for a minute clear on the outline of the Down. 'Silly brute!'
he thought; 'I always miss my chances.'

Why couldn't he be self-confident and ready? And, leaning his chin on
his hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. A week-end
was but a week-end, and he had missed three hours of it. Did he know any
one except himself who would have been such a flat? He did not.

He dressed for dinner early, and was first down. He would miss no more.
But he missed Fleur, who came down last. He sat opposite her at dinner,
and it was terrible--impossible to say anything for fear of saying
the wrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her in the only
natural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one with whom in fancy
he had already been over the hills and far away; conscious, too, all the
time, that he must seem to her, to all of them, a dumb gawk. Yes, it was
terrible! And she was talking so well--swooping with swift wing this
way and that. Wonderful how she had learned an art which he found so