As Mrs.Toplady talked thus, the door opened to admit--Mr.Lashmar, and there was an end of confidences for that day.
So far, Dymchurch had yielded without much reflection to the friendly pressure which brought him among strangers and disturbed his habits of seclusion.

These dinners and afternoon calls had no importance; very soon he would be going down into Somerset, where it might be hoped that he would think out the problems which worried him, and arrive at some clear decision about the future.

But when he found himself, reluctantly, yet as it seemed inevitably, setting forth to Mrs.
Toplady's "At Home," the reasonable man in him grew restive.

Why was he guilty of this weakness?
Years had passed since he did anything so foolish as to leave home towards the middle of the night for the purpose of hustling amid a crowd of unknown people in staircases and drawing-rooms.

He saw himself as the victim of sudden fatuity, own brother to the longest-eared of fashion's worshippers.