The long afternoon wore on; Crewe, Stafford, Lichfield, Tamworth went by, as things in a dream, for his thoughts were far away.  Sometimes, it is true, he would rebel against this morbid, restless, useless regret that had got hold of him; and he would valiantly attack the newspapers, of which he had an ample supply; but somehow or another the gray columns would fade away, and in their place would come a picture of Strathaivron Lodge, and the valley, and the river, and of an upturned face smiling a last farewell to him as the wagonette rolled on.  Was it really only yesterday that he had seen her—­talked with her—­taken her hand?  A yesterday that seemed years away!  A vision already growing pale.

Well, London came at last, and all the hurry and bustle of Euston Station; and when he had got his things put on the top of a hansom, and given his address to the driver, there was an end of dreams.  No more dreams were possible in this great vortex of a city into which he was now plunged—­a turbulent, bewildering, vast black hole it seemed, and yet all afire with its blaze of windows and lamps.  In Strathaivron the night was a gentle thing—­it came stealing over the landscape as soft as sleep; it brought silence with it and a weight to tired eyes; it bade the woods be still; and to the lonely and darkened peaks of the hills it unveiled its canopy of trembling stars.  But here there was no night—­there was yellow fire, there were black phantoms unceasingly hurrying hither and thither, and a dull and constant roar more continuous than that of any sea.  Tottenham Court Road after Strathaivron!  But here at least was actuality; the time for sentimental sorrows, for dumb and hopeless regrets, was over and gone.

And who was the first to greet him on his return to London—­who but Nina?—­not in person, truly, but by a very graceful little message.  The moment he went into his sitting-room his eye fell on the tiny nosegay lying on the table; and when he took the card from the accompanying envelope, he knew whose handwriting he would find there. “Welcome home—­from Nina!”—­that was all; but it was enough to make him rather remorseful.  Too much had he neglected his old comrade and ally; he had scarcely ever written to her; she had been but little in his thoughts.  Poor Nina!—­It was a shame he should treat so faithful a friend so ill; he might have remembered her a little more had not his head been stuffed with foolish fancies.  Well, as soon as he had changed his clothes and swallowed a bit of food he would jump into a hansom and go along to the New Theatre; he would be too late to judge of Nina’s Grace Mainwaring as a whole, but he would have a little chat with her in the wings.