r?' he asked.

'I've heard she's married.'

'Yes, a man called Tarrant. Very clever fellow; he writes for the
papers.--I say, Miss. French, I generally have a glass of wine and a
biscuit, at the confectioner's, about this time. Will you give me the
pleasure of your company?'

'_Charmee_, _Monsieur_! I generally go in for the same kind of thing.'

So they repaired to the cake-shop, and sat talking for half-an-hour of
trifles which made them laugh.

'And you really didn't know me?' said Fanny, when her glass of wine was
finished. 'Have I changed so much?'

'A good deal. Not for the worse, oh dear no!'

The girl giggled.

'Well, I don't mind saying that _you_ have changed a good deal for the
better.'

Horace flushed at the compliment.

'I'm much older,' he answered with a sigh, as though the years of a
sexagenarian weighed upon him.

'That's just what I like in you. You're so much more of a man. Don't be
offended.'

They went forth again into the sunshine. At the door both coughed, and
both pretended that it wasn't a cough at all, but a voluntary little
hem.

CHAPTER 2

Mrs. Damerel was younger than ever. She had spent October abroad, with
her friends Mrs. and Miss. Chittle, and the greater part of November at
Brighton, with other friends. Back in town she established herself
at one of the various boarding-houses honoured by her patronage, and
prepared to enjoy the social life of winter.

Half a year ago an unwonted depression had troubled her serene
existence. At the close of the London season she seemed weary and
spiritless, very unlike herself; having no invitation for the next two
months, she withdrew to Whitsand, and there spent some cheerless weeks.

Whitsand was the as yet unfashionable seaside place which had attracted
the speculative eye of Luckworth Crewe. For the past two years he had
been trying to inspire certain men of capital with his own faith in
the possibilities of Whitsand; he owned a share in the new hotel just
opened; whenever his manifold affairs allowed him a day's holiday,
he spent it at Whitsand, pacing the small esplanade, and meditating
improvements. That these 'improvements' signified the conversion of a
pretty little old-world spot into a hideous brand new resort of noisy
hordes, in no degree troubled Mr. Crewe's conscience. For his own part,
he could appreciate the charms of Whitsand as it stood; he was by
no means insensible to natural beauty and the ancient peac