“No, no, no, my lad; he’s going straight along. How lovely the sea looks!”
“And how refreshing it is after that hot, noisy room.”
“Insufferable. What fools men are to sit and drink when they might play whist!”
“And win money,” said Linnell drily.
“To be sure, my lad. Oh, you’ll come to it in time. Where the dickens is he going? Who can the lady be?”
The Major evidently knew, for he was walking smartly ahead, in earnest converse with half a dozen more. Then came the Colonel and his companion, and three more of the party brought up the rear.
The Major’s course was still by the row of houses that faced the sea, now almost without a light visible, and Richard Linnell was dreamily watching the waves that looked like liquid gold as they rose, curved over and broke upon the shingle, when all the blood seemed to rush at once to his heart, and then ebb away, leaving him choking and paralysed, for the Colonel suddenly said aloud:
“Claire Denville!”
And he saw that their host of the night had stopped before the house of the Master of the Ceremonies.
The blood began to flow again, this time with a big wave of passionate rage in Richard Linnell’s breast. He was furious. How dared that handsome libertine profane Claire Denville by even thinking of her? How dared he bring him there, to play beneath the window—the window he had so often watched, and looked upon as a sacred temple—the resting-place of her he loved.