This was most unwonted waste of time, not easily accounted for by Mallard himself.

A morning of sunny splendour, coming after much cloudiness and a good deal of rain, plucked him early out of bed, strong in the resolve that to-morrow should see him on the road to Amalfi.

He had slept well--an exception in the past week--and his mind was open to the influences of sunlight and reason.

Before going forth for breakfast he had a letter to write, a brief account of himself addressed to the murky little town of Sowerby Bridge, in Yorkshire.

This finished, he threw open the big windows, stepped out on to the balcony, and drank deep draughts of air from the sea.