At one time it was rather a question whether Varley would ever be permitted to go back, for he made so many friends and became so popular in England that, as Lord Selvaine said, it would be cruel of him to leave it. It was wonderful how unanimous was the verdict in Varley’s favor, how everybody conspired to make a lion of him, much to his surprise, and how eager every one was to show him the best side of this old but not altogether worn-out England.
“I have had a splendid time,” he remarked to Norman one evening, as the two men were standing on the cliffs, watching the men at work at the new Belfayre watering-place. “A splendid time,” he repeated. “I imagine that I have seen pretty nearly everything that is worth seeing, and have met with as much kindness as will last me for the remainder of my abandoned life.” He paused and looked at his cigarette attentively. “I have made the acquaintance of princes, and dukes, and lords, and ladies of high degree; have seen all the wonders of this remarkable little island of yours, and I am both delighted and grateful. But there is one person whom I had hoped to meet and exchange a few words with when I came to England; in fact, it was one of my principal reasons for coming.”
“Oh!” said Norman, curiously, and with some surprise, “who is he?”
“It isn’t a he; it’s a lady,” drawled Varley, looking straight before him—“Lady Ada Lancing, the lady you left that message with, and who stole that letter of yours.”
Norman colored and shook his head.
“You are not likely to meet her,” he said, gravely. “Lady Ada left England before we returned. She is living on the Continent.”
“I am sorry,” said Varley in his most languid tones. “I have something I want to say to her very badly. Do you know when she is coming back?”
“She will never come back,” said Norman.
THE END.