Woods shook his head.
"More--more than you ought to afford, Lord Blackborough," he replied evasively; "I can't keep the expenses down as I should wish, even here."
"Have you enough to go on with?"
"Plenty--but----"
"Then work out a scheme, please, for the other and have it ready against my return. And--and stop a bit! There is a place in Wales--I'll write it down--coming in to the market before long. Buy it in, furniture and all. And if the woman who is in charge--Martha's her name--wants to stop on--let her stop. I am off to--to India--for six months."
[CHAPTER XXIII]
Did Ned Blackborough go to India, seeking dreams at the feet of some entranced immobile ascetic, hidden away even from the sunshine of the world under the shade of the bo-tree? Did he go to Algiers and seek for them in the desert among the pathless dunes, where every step is covered by the eternally-restless, eternally-recurring wind-writing of the sand ripples? Or remaining closer at hand did he, in some remote Cornish village seek to hear the secret of dreams that is told unceasingly in the roar and the hush of the sea? Or on the eternal snows, which dominate all Europe in its hurry and its hunt for gold, which look out with cold eyes on its civilisation, its culture, its crime, did he find what he sought hemmed in by calm glaciers, frozen, ice-bound?
The one would have served his purpose quite as well as another; that being the putting in of time in a manner which did not offend his sensibilities; for, as he told himself often, he was fast becoming a crank.
The world, as it was, did not amuse him very much; it seemed to him hopelessly vulgar, even in its highest ideals for individual success and individual culture.
Wherever he went, and as to that none but himself knew, he returned as usual, punctual to a day. It was early October therefore, when, a little thinner, considerably browner, he found himself walking down Accacia Road West, Blackborough, looking for No. 10, that being the address where he was told the Cruttendens lived.