to London before long.'

Egremont shortly changed his place, and saw that Dalmaine took the
vacant seat by Paula. The two seemed to get on very well together.
Paula was evidently exerting herself to be charming; Dalmaine was doing
his best to trifle.

He sought more information from Mrs. Tyrrell regarding Mr. Newthorpe.
She seemed to fear that her brother-in-law might have been in more
danger than Annabel in her letter admitted.

'They certainly must come south,' she said. 'They are having a terrible
winter, and it has evidently tried Mr. Newthorpe beyond his strength.
You have influence with him, I believe, Mr. Egremont. Pray join me in
my efforts to bring them both back to civilisation.'

'I fear my influence will effect nothing if yours fails,' said Walter.
'But Mr. Newthorpe should certainly not risk his health.'

He next had a chat with Mr. John Tyrrell, junior. Paula's brother was
two-and-twenty, a frankly sensual youth, of admirable temper, great in
turf matters, with a genius for conviviality. Jack's health was
perfect, for he had his father's habit of enjoying life without excess,
and his stamina allowed a wide limit to the term moderation. Like the
rest of his family, he had the secret of conciliating goodwill; there
was no humbug in him, and one respected him as a fine specimen of the
young male developed at enormous expense. For Egremont he had a certain
reverence: a man who habitually thought was clearly, he admitted, of a
higher grade than himself, and he had no objection whatever to proclaim
his own inferiority. Egremont, talking with him, was half disposed to
envy Jack Tyrrell. What a simple thing life was with limitless cash, a
perfect digestion, and good-humour in the place of brains!

His room seemed very cold and lonely when he got back to it shortly
before midnight. The fire had been let out; the books round the walls
had a musty appearance; there was stale tobacco in the air. He paced
the floor, thinking of Annabel, wondering whether she would soon be in
London, longing to see her. And before he went to bed, he wrote a
letter to Mr. Newthorpe, expressing the anxiety with which he had heard
of his illness. Of himself he said little; the few words that came to
his pen concerning the Lambeth crusade were rather lifeless.

He was being talked of meanwhile in the Tyrrells' drawing-room. The
last guests being gone, there was chat for a few minutes between the
members of the family.

'Egremont i