The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his way to a lonely farmhouse in order to find shelter. By the time he reached it, his clothes were soaked with rain.
He stood in a cart-shed, and watched the flood as it fell. The few trees that grew around the farmstead looked drear and forbidding; away in the distance the hills seemed to smoke.
"And this is life," he laughed. "We are born, we suffer, we make fools of ourselves, and we die."
And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had Olive Castlemaine by his side, he could have been a happy man. But she had driven him from her presence, she had commanded him never to speak to her again.
"Won't 'ee come in by the vire, zur? You mus' be fine 'n' wet."
"Thank you," said Leicester, in reply to the invitation of the buxom farmer's wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which a huge wood fire was burning.
"Why, you be fair streamin'," said the woman. "Zet cloas by the vire, and dry yerzelf. Do 'ee then. You'll catch yer death ef you doan't."
"Well, there'd be one less in the world," said Leicester, "and as the world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter."
"Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'."
"I never joke," replied Leicester. "Still, if I died, there'd be the trouble of burying me, and that would be a pity."