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accustomed route, lest he should meet Grace returning from town.

Unshaven; hungry and unconscious of the fact, he had paced the deserted beach beyond Fitzroy until darkness fell, his thoughts jumbled, his mind a misery. He had spent the whole night among the sandhills—sandhills which had become transformed from the setting of a scented dream into the trappings of a nightmare within a short twenty-four hours—sheltering himself from the chill westerly wind more by instinct than from conscious discomfort. The roar of the surf had supplied the uniform bass upon which he had built shrieking discords of unhappy thoughts. He had thrown himself down on the sand; he had risen; he had walked aimlessly all through that night; and when the south-bound mail train had thundered over the Te Henui viaduct in the morning he had regained enough of his sanity to recognise himself as the prince of all fools, and to tell himself as much in a loud voice.

He had returned home an hour later to find the place spotless. The beds had been made with fresh linen, the windows had been open, there had been no soiled dishes in the sink, everything had been in its place—the perfect setting for the perfect housewife. He had found the table in the kitchenette laid for his breakfast, and propped against the toast-rack he had found a note from Grace: