“Mr. Eustace Lane.
“Mr. Eustace Bernhard Lane, only son of Mr. Merton Lane, of Carlton House Terrace, was born in London twenty-eight years ago. He is married to one of the belles of the day, and is probably the most envied husband in town.
“Although he is such a noted figure in society, Mr. Eustace Lane has never done any conspicuously good or bad deed. He has neither invented a bicycle nor written a novel, neither lost a seat in Parliament, nor found a mine in South Africa. Careless of elevating the world, he has been content to entertain it, to make it laugh, or to make it wonder. His aim is to amuse, and his whole-souled endeavour to succeed in this ambition has gained him the entire respect of the frivolous. What more could man desire?”
As he finished there came a ring at the hall-door bell.
“Winifred!” he exclaimed, and jumped up with the paper in his hand.
In a moment the footman entered with a note.
“A boy messenger has just brought this, sir,” he said.
Eustace took it, and, as the man went out and shut the door, opened it, and read:
“Victoria Station.
“This is to say good-bye. By the time it reaches you I
shall have left London. Not alone. I have seen the cartoon.
It is very like you.
Winifred.”
Eustace sank down in a chair.