"Good, good! Now I am going," he said, with determination.
"But where are you going?" she asked, anxiously.
"Over to Aviemore; I know some people there. But I shall take the train back to London this evening. It's all right," he said to Mrs. Lakeman, who had sauntered up to the window with a newspaper in her hand; "Lena's a sensible girl; I knew she was."
Mrs. Lakeman looked at him almost vacantly; she had ceased to take the slightest interest in his love affairs. "Have you seen the Scotsman?" she asked; "the boy has just come with it."
"No; why?"
"Cyril is dead, and Gerald is Lord Eastleigh."
"Good! he'll be coming back," Tom answered; "I'm off in half an hour," he added.
"Oh!" She was too much preoccupied even to ask him to stay; but when he had gone, as if with a jerk she remembered the excitement of the morning. "We made a nice fiasco over Tom," she said to Lena; "I don't know which is the greater idiot, you or I."
"It was very interesting," Lena answered. "But I should never have energy enough for the life he likes. I can't bear coarse effects or strong lights or exercise, or any of the things he cares for—people should always be restful."
"You had better marry a minor poet," Mrs. Lakeman answered, grimly, "or an inferior painter, and live in a Chelsea studio."