hall, while Errington, a little surprised at
this sudden arrangement, observed--

"Why, George--I thought you'd be here when we came back from
Norway--to--to welcome Thelma, you know!"

George laughed. "My dear boy, I shan't be wanted! Just let me know how
everything goes on. You--you see, I'm in duty bound to take my mother
out of London in winter."

"Just so!" agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly while he spoke.
"Don't grudge the old lady her southern sunshine. Errington! Lorimer
wants brushing up a bit too--he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it
settled--the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross--morning
tidal express, of course,--never go by night service across the Channel
if you can help it."

Again they shook hands and parted.

"Best thing that young fellow can do!" thought Lovelace as he returned
to the Club reading-room. "The sooner he gets out of this, into new
scenes the better,--he's breaking his heart over the beautiful Thelma.
By Jove! the boy's eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her
name was mentioned. He's rather badly hit!"

He sat down and began to meditate. "What can I do for him, I wonder?" he
thought. "Nothing, I suppose. A love of that sort can't be remedied.
It's a pity--a great pity! And I don't know any woman likely to make a
counter-impression on him. He'd never put up with an Italian beauty"--he
paused in his reflections, and the color flushed his broad, handsome
brow, as the dazzling vision of a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark
eyes and rippling masses of rich brown hair came flitting before
him--"unless he saw Angela," he murmured to himself softly,--"and he
will not see her,--besides, Angela loves _me_!"

And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly pleasant, to
judge from the expression of his features. Beau was by no means ignorant
of the tender passion--he had his own little romance, as beautiful and
bright as a summer day--but he had resolved that London, with its love
of gossip, its scandal, and society papers,--London, that on account of
his popularity as a writer, watched his movements and chronicled his
doings in the most authoritative and incorrect manner,--London should
have no chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. And
so far he had succeeded--and was likely still to succeed.

Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending to read a
newspaper, though his thoughts were far away from it, Err