"And won't be the last. I've done it so often myself. Ass! Faith, it's a herd of asses I've made of myself, and jackasses at that, and there you go getting into a flurry over doing what every man does. Did you ask her?"
"No," said Dashwood, viciously, clasping the bag, "I didn't."
"Then how on earth did you make an ass of yourself?" asked French, without in the least meaning to be uncomplimentary.
"How?" cried Dashwood, infuriated. "Why, by trying to act straight over this business. Now I must go. I'll write from town. I'll explain everything in a letter. Only, promise me one thing--don't say anything to--her. Don't ask her questions."
Bag in hand, Mr. Dashwood made for the door. To reach the station by road would mean the risk of meeting Miss Grimshaw. By the Downs side, skirting the allotments and the Episcopalian chapel, ran a path that led indirectly to the station. This Mr. Dashwood took walking hurriedly, and arriving half an hour before the 1.10 to Victoria was due.
Crowsnest Station was not a happy waiting-place. Few railway stations really are. To a man in Mr. Dashwood's state of mind, however, it was not intolerable. Rose gardens, blue hills, or the music of Chopin would have been torture to him. Pictures illustrating the beauty of Rickman's boot polish and the virtues of Monkey Brand soap fitted his mood.
He arrived at Victoria shortly before three, and drove to his rooms at the Albany. It was a feature of Mr. Dashwood's peculiar position that, though heir to large sums of money, endowed with a reasonable income, and with plenty of credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute of ready cash as any member of the unemployed. Hatters, hosiers, tailors, and bootmakers were all at his command, but an unlimited credit for hats is of no use to you when your bank balance is overdrawn and boots fail to fill the void created by absence of money.
When he paid his cab off in Piccadilly he had only a few shillings left in his pocket. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and the desolate prospect of a penniless Sunday lay before him, but left him unmoved. There is one good point about all big troubles--they eat up little ones.
This was Mr. Dashwood's letter to Miss Grimshaw, received and read by her on Monday morning: