“They arrive to-morrow, I believe.”

“And Lady Adela’s novel?”

“Oh, I don’t know anything about that,” said she, with a good-humored smile.  “Surely she can’t have written another novel already!”

When they got into the station, a footman was awaiting them, but they had no bags or baggage of any description; they walked a little way along the platform and entered the carriage; presently they were driving away down to the sea-front.  What Honnor Cunyngham thought of the arrangement, it is impossible to say, but the invitation was none of her giving:  no doubt it was merely a little compliment in acknowledgment of Mr. Moore’s kindness of the preceding night.  However, when the barouche pulled up in front of a house in Adelaide Crescent, Mr. Moore had his own proposal to make.

“It seems so pleasant down there,” said he, looking towards the wide stretches of greensward and the promenade along the sea-wall, where the people, just come out of church, were strolling to and fro; “every one appears to be out—­don’t you think we should have a little walk before going in?”

Honnor Cunyngham said nothing; it was her mother who at once and good-naturedly assented; and when they had descended from the carriage they forthwith made their way down to mix in this idle throng.  It was quite a bright and pleasant morning here—­a stiff southwesterly breeze blowing—­a considerably heavy sea thundering in and springing with jets of white spray into the air—­the sunlight shining along the yellow houses of Brunswick Terrace, where there were cheerful bits of green here and there in the balconies.  Then the crowd was rather more gayly dressed than an English crowd usually is; for women allow themselves a little more latitude in the way of color during the Brighton season, and on such a morning there was ample excuse for a display of sunshades.  And was it merely a wish to breathe the fresh-blowing wind and to listen to the hissing withdrawal and recurrent roar of the waves that had induced Lionel to ask his two companions to join in this slow march up and down?  Young men have their little vanities and weaknesses, like other folk.  Rumor had on more than one occasion coupled his name with that of some fair damsel; what if he were to say now, “Well, if you will talk, here is one worth talking about.”  He was conscious on this shining morning that Miss Cunyngham—­the more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother—­was looking superb; he remembered what Miss Georgie had said about Honnor’s proud and graceful carriage.  He knew a good many of the people in this slow-moving assemblage; and he was not sorry they should see him talking to this tall and handsome young Englishwoman—­who also appeared to have a numerous acquaintanceship.

“Why, you seem to know everybody, Mr. Moore?” she said to him, with a smile.

“You would think all London was here this morning—­it’s really astonishing!” he made answer.