I spent what I believe is generally called "a wretched night." It must have been about two in the morning when I finally consigned Barton and the bronze-haired girl, and my own ridiculous emotions, to the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely over on my side, dropped into a troubled, useless sort of sleep.
I was awake again at six, roused by the vigorous carolling of a thrush, whose own love affairs were apparently in excellent order. George was still sleeping. I crawled out carefully so as not to disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river.
There was the promise of another lovely day in the air, and the warm early-morning sunshine seemed to bathe one in a kind of comforting caress. By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on the bank, my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to what I believed to be a more or less philosophic resignation.
After all, I said to myself, there was nothing to be gained by weeping and gnashing one's teeth. It was distinctly distressing that my only attempt at falling in love should have met with so disastrous a check; still, other people had had equally unpleasant experiences, and had managed to survive them. Was it not brave old George Wither who had summed up the situation in that delightfully reasonable couplet:
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back. It comforted me to persuade myself that I agreed with them.
I found George outside the tent, shaving.
"Hallo!" he said. "Feeling fitter?"
"I am quite well this morning, thank you, George," I answered.
"In that case," said he kindly, "you may cook breakfast."