at the right time for
Maud, it was no less welcome to Waymark. When he wrote his last letter
to her, it had proceeded more from a sense of obligation than any
natural impulse. For he was then only just recovering from a period of
something like despair. His pursuit of Ida Starr to London had been
fruitless. It was true that she had left her former abode, and the
landlady professed to be ignorant of her new one, though she admitted
that she had seen Ida scarcely two hours before Waymark's arrival. He
wrote, but had no reply. His only comfort was an ever-rising suspicion
of the truth (as he would learn it later), but fears were, on the
whole, strongest within him. Confidence in her he had not. All the
reflections of that last evening on Hastings pier lived and re-lived in
his mind; outcome of the cynicism which was a marked feature in his
development, and at the same time tending to confirm it. She had been
summoned back suddenly by a letter; who but a simpleton could doubt
what that meant? He thought of Sally, of course, and the step she had
taken; but could he draw conclusions about Ida from Sally, and did ever
two such instances come within a man's experience? To Sally herself he
had naturally had recourse, but in vain. She said that she knew nothing
of the lost girl. So Waymark fought it out, to the result of weariness;
then plunged into his work again, and had regained very much his
ordinary state of mind when Maud Enderby unexpectedly came before him.

He called upon the Enderbys, and was soon invited to dine, which
necessitated the purchase of a dress suit. On the appointed evening, he
found Maud and her mother in a little drawing-room, which had a
pleasant air of ease and refinement. It was a new sensation for Waymark
as he sank into a soft chair, and, in speaking, lowered his voice, to
suit the quietness of the room. The soft lamp-light spreading through
the coloured shade, the just perceptible odour of scent when Mrs.
Enderby stirred, the crackling of the welcome fire, filled him with a
sense of luxury to which he was not accustomed. He looked at Maud. She
was beautiful in her evening dress; and, marking the grave, sweet
thoughtfulness of her face, the grace of her movements, the air of
purity which clung about her, his mind turned to Ida Starr, and
experienced a shock at the comparison. Where was Ida at this moment?
The mere possibilities which such a question brought before his mind
made him uneasy, almost as