"No; but when did you come to London?" he inquires.
"Several days ago," De Vere replies, carelessly, and scanning his friend curiously. Lancaster does not bear the scrutiny well. He is wan and haggard looking. There is no color in his usually florid face, and his eyes are heavy and restless.
"You have not finished your visit so soon, I trust," he observes, eying his friend in turn with a close scrutiny. De Vere has a worn air, too, as if dull and ennuyé.
"Yes, I have finished my visit; I did not care to remain after my host took such a cavalier flight."
"Ah, indeed!" sarcastically. "But I did not know that I was the object of your visit."
"You were not, particularly; but I came away because I had no longer any excuse for staying."
The tone was so peculiar that Lancaster looked at him more closely. He caught De Vere by the arm a little nervously.
"De Vere, you don't mean to tell me that she has refused you?"
"She is so indefinite. Whom do you mean?" airily.
"I thought there was but one she in the case. Miss West, of course."