h yes, I shall certainly be back in time, unless
anything very serious prevents me. There's a good train from Weymouth
at 10.10--gets in about half-past two. I shall easily get to Prince's
Hall by three.'

Alma again regarded him, and seemed on the point of saying something,
but she turned her head, rose, and rather hastily took leave. Hugh
remarked to himself that she looked even worse by daylight than in the
evening; decidedly, she was making herself ill--perhaps, he added, the
best thing that could happen.

For his luncheon he had small appetite. The journey before him was a
nuisance, and the meeting at the end of it more disagreeable than
anything he had ever undertaken. What a simple matter life would be,
but for women! That Sibyl should detest her mother was perhaps natural
enough, all things considered; but he heartily wished they were on
better terms. He felt that Sibyl must have suffered in character, to
some extent, by this abnormal antipathy. He did not blame her; her
self-defence this morning proved that she had ground for judging her
mother sternly; and perhaps, as she declared, only by her own strength
and goodness had she been saved from the worst results of parental
neglect. Hugh did not often meditate upon such things, but just now he
felt impatience and disgust with women who would not care properly for
their children. Poor old Rolfe's wife, for instance, what business had
she to be running at large about London, giving concerts, making
herself ill and ugly, whilst her little son was left to a governess and
servants! He had half a mind to write a letter to old Rolfe. But no;
that kind of thing was too dangerous, even between the nearest friends.
Men must not quarrel; women did more than enough of that. Sibyl and
Alma had as good as fallen out; the less they saw of each other the
better. And now he had to face a woman, perhaps dying, who would
doubtless rail by the hour at her own daughter.

O heaven! for a breath of air on sea or mountain or prairie! Could he
stand this life much longer?

Driving to Waterloo, he thought of Mrs. Larkfield's bequest to the
charitable institution. Six hundred pounds might be a paltry income,
but one could make use of it. A year ago, to be sure, he would have
felt more troubled by the loss; at present he had reason to look
forward hopefully, so far as money could represent hope. The cycle
business was moving; as likely as not, it would ultimately enrich him.
There was