glance changes it to one of
greeting.

"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented my
recognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met."

"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and
altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in the
flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of
an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is
showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its
struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent
four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is
inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,--sound in wind and
limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen
it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with
yourself this evening?"

"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me
somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."

"I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it
all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I
wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"

"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."

"The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening;
"and the Argyll----"

"I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather
impatiently. "Suggest something calmer--musical, or that."

"Oh, musical! That _is_ mild. I have been educated in the belief
that a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his
days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, go
to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and
anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London
to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart
at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The
Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see
Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely."

"I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes
and does it.

Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the
coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself
decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the
applause that followed the effort has n