“O lang may his lady-love
      Look frae the Castle Doune,
    Ere she see the Earl o’ Moray
      Come sounding through the toun”—­

but there is no gaslight here—­there are no painted faces—­he has not to look on at the antics of a clown, with shame and confusion in his heart—­

The wild fancy was suddenly snapped in twain; Lady Cunyngham rose; the two younger people did likewise.

“Now, I know you gentlemen like a cigar or cigarette after luncheon,” she said to Lionel, “and we are going to leave you quite by yourself—­you will find us in the drawing-room when you please.”

Of course he would not hear of such a proposal; he opened the door for them, and followed them up-stairs; what were cigars or cigarettes to him when he had such a chance of listening to Honnor Cunyngham’s low, modulated voice, or watching for a smile in the calmly observant hazel eyes?  Indeed, in the drawing-room, as Miss Honnor showed him a large collection of Assiout ware which had been sent her by an English officer in Egypt (by what right or title, Lionel swiftly asked himself, had any English officer made bold to send Miss Cunyngham a hamperful of these red-clay idiotcies?), this solitary guest had again and again to remind himself that he must not outstay his welcome.  And yet they seemed to find a great deal to talk about; and the elder of the two ladies was exceedingly kind to him; and there was a singular fascination in his finding himself entirely en famille with them.  But alas!  Even if he or they had chosen to forget, the early dusk of the November afternoon was a sufficient warning; the windows told him he had to go.  And go he did at last.  He bade them good-bye; with some friendly words still dwelling in his ears he made his way down the dim stairs and had the door opened for him; then he found himself in this now empty and hopeless town of Brighton, that seemed given over to the low, multitudinous murmur of that wide waste of waves.

He did not go along to the Orleans Club; his heart and brain were too busy to permit of his meeting chance acquaintances.  He walked away towards Shoreham till a smart shower made him turn.  When he got back to the town the lamps were lit, throwing long, golden reflections on the wet asphalt, but the rain had ceased; so he continued to pace absently along through this blue twilight, hardly noticing the occasional dark figures that passed.  What was the reason, then, of this vague unrest—­this unknown longing—­this dissatisfaction and almost despair?  Had he not been more fortunate than he could have hoped for?  He had met Miss Honnor and her mother in the morning, and had been with them all the way down; they had been most kind to him; he had spent the best part of the day with them; they had parted excellent friends; looking back, he could not recall a single word he would have liked unsaid.  Then a happy fancy struck him:  the moment he got up to town he would go and seek out Maurice Mangan.  There was a wholesome quality in Mangan’s saturnine contempt for the non-essential things of life; Mangan’s clear penetration, his covert sympathy, his scorn or mock-melancholy, would help him to get rid of these vapors.