Paul Montague had been a fool to suggest Lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. It was not the first place he had named; but when fault had been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands which were best known to himself. Lowestoft was just the spot which Mrs. Hurtle required. When she had been shown her room, and taken down out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to be charmed. She acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had no right to expect that Mrs. Pipkin should understand what sort of place she needed. But Paul would understand,—and had understood. "I think the hotel charming," she said. "I don't know what you mean by your fun about the American hotels, but I think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!" Hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. Of course it was impossible that Paul should return to London by the mail train which started about an hour after his arrival. He would have reached London at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. The following day was Sunday, and of course he promised to stay till Monday. Of course he had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. Of course he was not saying them when Roger Carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. Mrs. Hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. Though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. We know that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. And so did Paul like the companionship of Mrs. Hurtle because her attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips. He liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair,—though he would have given all that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some impassable gulf. As he had to be hanged,—and this woman's continued presence would be as bad as death to him,—he liked to have his meal well dressed.

He certainly had been foolish to bring her to Lowestoft, and the close neighbourhood of Carbury Manor;—and now he felt his folly. As soon as he saw Roger Carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then leaving Mrs. Hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. "It is Mrs. Hurtle," he said, "I must introduce you," and the introduction was made. Roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest ceremony. Mrs. Hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her acknowledgment of the courtesy. In former days she had heard much of Roger Carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. "I did not know that you were thinking of coming to Lowestoft," said Roger in a voice that was needlessly severe. But his mind at the present moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind.

The sands at Lowestoft.
Click to [ENLARGE]

"I was not thinking of it. Mrs. Hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in England, I brought her."

"Mr. Montague and I have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much difference."

"Do you stay long?" asked Roger in the same voice.

"I go back probably on Monday," said Montague.

"As I shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. Will you join us at dinner, Mr. Carbury, this evening?"

"Thank you, madam;—I have dined."