few who were jealous of him or were too conventional to appreciate his character.  With women he was a favourite, and their society was his greatest pleasure; yet, in spite of his fervid temperament—­in appearance fervid, at all events—­he never seemed to fall in love.  Some there were who said that the self he went so far to discover would prove to have a female form.  Perhaps there was truth in this; perhaps he sought, whether consciously or no, the ideal woman.  None of those with whom he companioned had a charge of light wooing to bring against him, though one or two would not have held it a misfortune if they had tempted him to forget his speculations and declare that he had reached his goal.  But his striving always seemed to be for something remote from the world about him.  His capacity for warm feeling, itself undeniable, was never dissociated from that impersonal zeal which was the characteristic of his expressions in verse.  In fact, he had written no love-poem.

Annabel and her father observed a change in him since his last visit.  This was the first time that he had come without an express invitation, and they gathered from his speech that he had at length found some definite object for his energies.  His friends had for a long time been asking what he meant to do with his life.  It did not appear that he purposed literary effort, though it seemed the natural outlet for his eager thought; and of the career of politics he at all times spoke with contempt.  Was he one of the men, never so common as nowadays, who spend their existence in canvassing the possibilities that lie before them and delay action till they find that the will is paralysed?  One did not readily set Egremont in that class, principally, no doubt, because he was so free from the offensive forms of self-consciousness which are wont to stamp such men.  The pity of it, too, if talents like his were suffered to rust unused; the very genuineness of his idealism made one believe in him and look with confidence to his future.

Having dined, all went forth to enjoy the evening upon the lawn.  The men smoked; Annabel had her little table with tea and coffee.  Paula had brought out a magazine, and affected to read.  Annabel noticed, however, that a page was very seldom turned.

‘Have you seen Mrs. Ormonde lately?’ Mr. Newthorpe asked of Egremont.

‘I spent a day at Eastbourne before going to Jersey.’

‘She has promised to come to us in the autumn,’ said Annabel; ’but she seems to have such a difficulty in leaving her Home.  Had she many children about her when you were there?’

‘Ten or twelve.’

‘Do they all come from London?’ asked Annabel.