"It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, and being out was the great thing. I did get into woods, too, presently."
"Yes, go on," said Helen.
"You've no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it's dark."
"Did you actually go off the roads?"
"Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the worst of it is that it's more difficult to find one's way."
"Mr. Bast, you're a born adventurer," laughed Margaret. "No professional athlete would have attempted what you've done. It's a wonder your walk didn't end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?"
"Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses," said Helen. "Besides, they can't walk. It tires them. Go on."
"I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in Virginibus—"
"Yes, but the wood. This 'ere wood. How did you get out of it?"
"I managed one wood, and found a road the other side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was those North Downs, for the road went off into grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I did wish I'd never come, but suddenly it got light—just while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and took the first train I could back to London."
"But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen.
With unforgettable sincerity he replied, "No." The word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the "love of the earth" and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow, an exultation, that he had seldom known.
"The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention—"
"Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know."
