He must know more.
It was a damp, misty morning, the fine frost had gone.

He was going to Margaret to try and recover some reality out of the state that he was in.

The recent incidents--Craven's suspicions, the 5th of November evening, Bunning's alarm, the scene with Margaret--bad dragged him for a time from that conviction that he was living in an unreal world.

That day when he had run in the snowstorm from Sannet Wood had seemed to him, during these last weeks, absurd and an effect, obviously, of excited nerves.

Now, on this morning of the Dublin match, he awoke again to that unreal condition.