And what made it very hard was that wherever she went they seemed to talk of him.  Now it would be a girl just from the other side who had met him on the terrace of the Lower House, “where he seemed to know every one,” and another had driven with him to Ascot, where he had held the reins, and had shown them what a man who had guided a mail-coach one whole winter over the mountains for a living could do with a coach for pleasure.  And many of the men had met him at the clubs and at house parties in the country, and they declared with enthusiastic envy that he was no end of a success.  Her English friends all wrote of him, and wanted to know all manner of little things concerning him, and hinted that they understood they were very great friends.  The papers seemed to be always having him doing something, and there was apparently no one else in London who could so properly respond to the toasts of America at all the public dinners.  She had had letters from him herself—­of course bright, clever ones—­that suggested what a wonderfully full and happy life his was, but with no reference to his return.  He was living with his young friend Lord Lowes, and went everywhere with him and his people; and then as a final touch, which she had already anticipated, people began to speak of him and the Honorable Evelyn.  What could be more natural? they said.  He had saved her brother’s life while out West half a dozen times at least, from all accounts; and he was rich, and well-looking, and well-born, and rapidly becoming famous.

A young married woman announced it at a girls’ luncheon.  She had it from her friend the Marchioness of Pelby, who was Evelyn’s first-cousin.  So far, only the family had been told; but all London knew it, and it was said that Lord Lowes was very much pleased.  One of the girls at the table said you never could tell about those things; she had no doubt the Marchioness of Pelby was an authority, but she would wait until she got their wedding-cards before she believed it.  For some reason this girl did not look at Miss Cuyler, and Miss Cuyler felt grateful to her, and thought she was a nice, bright little thing; and then another girl said it was only turn about.  The Englishmen had taken all the attractive American girls, and it was only fair that the English girls should get some of the nice American men.  This girl was an old friend of Eleanore’s; but she was surprised at her making such a speech, and wondered why she had not noticed in her before similar exhibitions of bad taste.  She walked back to Rivington Street from the luncheon; composing the letter she would write to him, congratulating him on his engagement.  She composed several.  Some of them were very short and cheery, and others rather longer and full of reminiscences.  She wondered with sudden fierce bitterness how he could so soon forget certain walks and afternoons they had spent together; and the last note, which she composed in bed, was a very sad and scornful one, and so pathetic as a work of composition that she cried a little over it, and went to sleep full of indignation that she had cried.