Lisle was a popular man; he had discovered this fact on his return to England, and had made considerable capital out of his name in various ways. It had proved to be an open sesame to a rather exclusive circle, who cordially welcomed Apollo when they heard that he and Gilbert Lisle were "like brothers," and had lived under the same roof for months. Lisle had been useful at Port Blair, and he would be useful in London.
"Well, were you surprised to find that there was a Mrs. Quentin?" he asked, as he came up with his quarry in a comparatively empty room, chiefly devoted to the display of etchings on large stands and easels.
"No, of course not—but," looking him steadily in the face, "she is not the lady I expected to see."
"What!" then all of a sudden he remembered Helen—Helen, who had been completely swept out of his mind by a twelvemonth of busy intrigues, and such exciting pursuits as fortune-hunting, tuft-hunting, and place-hunting. "Oh! to be sure, you were thinking of Miss Denis, but that did not come off, you see," he added with careless effrontery. "She was all very well—pour passer le temps—in an ungodly hole like the Andamans, but, by George! England is quite another affair."
"Is it—and why?" inquired his listener, rather grimly.
"Oh! my dear fellow, she has not a rap—she was literally penniless—when her father died, she was destitute."
"But you always understood that she had no fortune."
"Yes, but when I came to look at it, I saw that it would never do. I had next to nothing; she had nothing at all; one cannot live on love, and I don't think I was ever really serious. I did you a good turn though; you were rather inclined to make a fool of yourself in that quarter," administering a playful poke in the ribs, and grinning significantly.
But the grin on his face faded somewhat suddenly as he encountered a look in his companion's eyes that made him feel curiously uncomfortable.
"Where is she now?" inquired Lisle, speaking in a low, repressed sort of tone.