Touching the shore of England, Will stamped like a man who returns from exile.

It was a blustering afternoon, more like November than August; livid clouds pelted him with rain, and the wind chilled his face; but this suited very well with the mood which possessed him.

He had been away on a holiday--a more expensive holiday than he ought to have allowed himself, and was back full of vigour.

Instead of making him qualmish, the green roarers of the Channel had braced his nerves, and put him in good heart; the boat could not roll and pitch half enough for his spirits.

A holiday--a run to the Pyrenees and back; who durst say that it had been anything else?
The only person who could see the matter in another light was little likely to disclose her thoughts.
At Dover he telegraphed to Godfrey Sherwood: "Come and see me to-night." True, he had been absent only a week, but the time seemed to him so long that he felt it must have teemed with events.