"Why, George—I thought you'd be here when we came back from Norway—to—to welcome Thelma, you know!"
George laughed. "My dear boy, I shan't be wanted! Just let me know how everything goes on. You—you see, I'm in duty bound to take my mother out of London in winter."
"Just so!" agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly while he spoke. "Don't grudge the old lady her southern sunshine. Errington! Lorimer wants brushing up a bit too—he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it settled—the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross—morning tidal express, of course,—never go by night service across the Channel if you can help it."
Again they shook hands and parted.
"Best thing that young fellow can do!" thought Lovelace as he returned to the Club reading-room. "The sooner he gets out of this, into new scenes the better,—he's breaking his heart over the beautiful Thelma. By Jove! the boy's eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her name was mentioned. He's rather badly hit!"
He sat down and began to meditate. "What can I do for him, I wonder?" he thought. "Nothing, I suppose. A love of that sort can't be remedied. It's a pity—a great pity! And I don't know any woman likely to make a counter-impression on him. He'd never put up with an Italian beauty"—he paused in his reflections, and the color flushed his broad, handsome brow, as the dazzling vision of a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark eyes and rippling masses of rich brown hair came flitting before him—"unless he saw Angela," he murmured to himself softly,—"and he will not see her,—besides, Angela loves me!"
And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly pleasant, to judge from the expression of his features. Beau was by no means ignorant of the tender passion—he had his own little romance, as beautiful and bright as a summer day—but he had resolved that London, with its love of gossip, its scandal, and society papers,—London, that on account of his popularity as a writer, watched his movements and chronicled his doings in the most authoritative and incorrect manner,—London should have no chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. And so far he had succeeded—and was likely still to succeed.
Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending to read a newspaper, though his thoughts were far away from it, Errington and Lorimer arrived at the Midland Station. Britta was already there with the luggage,—she was excited and pleased—her spirits had risen at the prospect of seeing her mistress soon again,—possibly, she thought gladly, they might find her at Hull,—they might not have to go to Norway at all. The train came up to the platform—the tickets were taken,—and Sir Philip, with Britta, entered—a first-class compartment, while Lorimer stood outside leaning with folded arms on the carriage-window, talking cheerfully.
"You'll find her all right, Phil, I'm positive!" he said. "I think it's very probable she has been compelled to remain at Hull,—and even at the worst, Britta can guide you all over Norway, if necessary. Nothing will daunt her!"
And he nodded kindly to the little maid who had regained her rosy color and the sparkle of her eyes in the eagerness she felt to rejoin her beloved "Fröken." The engine-whistle gave a warning shriek—Philip leaned out and pressed his friend's hand warmly.