As far as those two perturbing figures in the background of their days were concerned⁠—Bob Weevil and Christie⁠—matters relapsed during these long autumn months into a curious state of suspension. He would go to tea with Christie; and once or twice Gerda spoke of a visit from Bob. But as winter set in, and the nights lengthened to the December solstice, it seemed as if the burden of his monotonous work in the classroom, and the rigid economies practised by Gerda in the house, had undermined the spirit of adventure in both their natures.

He was surprised at his own obstinate patience in the tedious routine of teaching history to the Blacksod tradesmen’s sons. What supported him were the moments of ecstasy he derived from his long weekend walks. He had the whole of Saturday free, as well as Sunday, and sometimes with Gerda, and sometimes alone, he would follow the wraithlike vapours of autumn as they drifted over the lanes and hills, and give himself up, with a large forgetfulness of everything else, to his sensuous-mystical mythology.