so actual, so poignant, so horribly painful, that he got up abruptly and
went towards the door. Would she not say a word to him before he got out
of the room, would she not try and keep him? If she did not, surely it
would be all over; it would mean that anybody was more to her than
he. That little journey to the door, indeed, seemed like a march
to execution. Would she not call after him? He looked back. She was
smiling. But HE could not smile; she had hurt him too much! Turning his
head away, he went out, and dashed into the rain bareheaded. The feeling
of it on his face gave him a sort of dismal satisfaction. Soon he would
be wet through. Perhaps he would get ill. Out here, far away from his
people, she would have to offer to nurse him; and perhaps--perhaps in
his illness he would seem to her again more interesting than that young
beast, and then--Ah! if only he could be ill!

He mounted rapidly through the dripping leaves towards the foot of the
low mountain that rose behind the hotel. A trail went up there to the
top, and he struck into it, going at a great pace. His sense of injury
began dying away; he no longer wanted to be ill. The rain had stopped,
the sun came out; he went on, up and up. He would get to the top quicker
than anyone ever had! It was something he could do better than that
young beast. The pine-trees gave way to stunted larches, and these to
pine scrub and bare scree, up which he scrambled, clutching at the tough
bushes, terribly out of breath, his heart pumping, the sweat streaming
into his eyes. He had no feeling now but wonder whether he would get
to the top before he dropped, exhausted. He thought he would die of
the beating of his heart; but it was better to die than to stop and be
beaten by a few yards. He stumbled up at last on to the little plateau
at the top. For full ten minutes he lay there on his face without
moving, then rolled over. His heart had given up that terrific thumping;
he breathed luxuriously, stretched out his arms along the steaming