So that betrothal was completed; and when they passed out from the coppice into the whiter air, behold! the wild March skies had parted somewhat, and there was a shimmer of silver sunlight along the broad highway between the hedges.  It was an auspicious omen—­or, at least, their full hearts may have thought so; and then, again, there was a wedding chorus all around them from the birds—­from the bright-eyed robin perched on the crimson bramble-spray; from the speckled thrush on the swaying elm; from the lark far-hovering over a field of young corn.  But in their own happiness they had thought of others; Francie soon came back to Lionel again and his grievous misfortunes; and she was listening with meekness to this tall, clear-eyed man, who could now claim a certain gentle authority over her.  They were a long time before they got to the doctor’s house.

That same evening Miss Kate Burgoyne invited Lionel to come to her room for a cup of tea when he had dressed for the last act; and accordingly, when he was ready, he strolled along the corridor, rapped with his knuckles, and entered.  It turned out that the prima-donna had other visitors:  a young lady whom he had never seen before and Mr. Percival Miles.  The young gentleman, in faultless evening dress, seemed a little surprised at the easy manner in which Lionel had lounged into the place; and perhaps Lionel was also a little surprised—­for this was Mr. Miles’s first appearance in the room; but each man merely nodded to the other, in a formal-acquaintance style, as they were in the habit of doing at the Garden Club.  At the same moment Miss Burgoyne opened a portion of the curtain, so that she could address her guests.

“Mr. Moore, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Ingram.  Mr. Miles I think you know.”

And Lionel was glad enough to turn to the young lady and enter into conversation with her, for the pale young man with the slight yellow moustache was defiantly silent, and had even something fierce about his demeanor.  It was no business of Lionel’s to provoke a quarrel with this truculent fire-eater, especially in Miss Burgoyne’s room.  To quarrel about Kate Burgoyne?—­the irony of events could go no further than that.

And of course, as the most immediate topic, they spoke of the gale that had been blowing across London all the afternoon and evening; for the southerly winds that had prevailed in the morning had freshened up and increased in violence until a veritable hurricane was now raging, threatening roofs, chimneys, and lamp-posts, to say nothing of the whirled and driven and bewildered foot-passengers.

“I hear there has been a bad accident in Oxford Street,” Lionel said to the young lady.  “Some scaffolding has fallen—­a lot of people hurt.  I’m afraid there will be a sad tale to tell from the sea; even now, while we are secure in this big building, thinking only of amusement, I suppose there is many a ship laboring in the gale, or going headlong on to the rocks.  Have you far to get home?” he asked.