When he arrived at Brighton he walked rapidly away down to the King’s Road, and there he moderated his pace, keeping his eyes alert.  The people were beginning to come out from the various churches and many of them, before going in-doors, joined that slow promenade up and down the greensward farther west.  But, look where he might, there was no sign of Lady Cunyngham and her daughter, nor of Lady Adela and her two sisters.  They would have been easily distinguishable, he thought.  That they were in Brighton, he had no doubt; but apparently they were nowhere in this throng; so, rather downhearted, he retraced his steps to the Orleans Club, where he passed an hour or two with such acquaintances as he met there.

He was more fortunate in the afternoon.  When he went along to Adelaide Crescent, Lady Cunyngham and her daughter were both at home; and it was with a sense of joyous relief—­and yet with a touch of disquietude too—­that he found himself ascending the soft-carpeted stairs.  When he was shown into the drawing-room, he found only one occupant there—­it was Honnor Cunyngham herself, who was standing by a big portfolio set on a brass stand, and apparently engaged in arranging some large photographs.  She turned and greeted him very pleasantly and without any surprise; she went to two low settles coming out at right angles from the fireplace and sat down, while he took a seat opposite her; if he was rather nervous and bewildered, at finding himself thus suddenly face to face with her and alone with her, she was quite calm and self-possessed.

“Mother has just gone up-stairs; she will be here presently,” Miss Honnor said.  “But what a pity my sisters did not know you were coming down.  After church they all went off to visit an old lady, a great friend of theirs, who can’t get out-of-doors nowadays; and so I suppose they stayed on so as to keep her company.  However, I have no doubt they will be here before long.  What a pleasant thing it must be for you,” she added, “to be able to run down to Brighton for a day after a week’s hard work at the theatre.”

“Yes,” he answered, in a half-bitter kind of fashion.  “It is a pleasant thing to get away from the theatre—­anywhere.  I think I am becoming rather sick of the theatre and all its associations.”

“Really, Mr. Moore,” she said, with a smile, “it is surprising to hear you say so—­you of all men.”

“What comes of it?  You play the fool before a lot of idle people, until—­until—­your nature is subdued to what it works in, I suppose.  What service do you do to any human being?—­of what use are you in the world?”

“Surely you confer a benefit on the public when you provide them with innocent amusement,” she ventured to say—­she had not considered this subject much, if at all.

“But what comes of it?  They laugh for an hour or two and go home.  It is all gone—­like a breath of wind—­”

“But isn’t mere distraction a useful and wholesome thing?” she remonstrated again, “I know a great philosopher who is exceedingly fond of billiards, and very eager about the game too; but he doesn’t expect to gain any moral enlightenment from three balls and a bit of stick.  Distraction, amusement, is necessary to human beings; we can’t always be thinking of the problems of life.”