Flying from port to port to effect an exchange of stewards (the endless occupation of a yacht proprietor), Wilfrid had no tidings from Brookfield.

The night before the gathering on Besworth Lawn he went to London and dined at his Club--a place where youths may drink largely of the milk of this world's wisdom.

Wilfrid's romantic sentiment was always corrected by an hour at his Club.

After dinner he strolled to a not perfectly regulated theatre, in company with a brother officer; and when they had done duty before the scenes for a space of time, they lounged behind to disenchant themselves, in obedience to that precocious cynicism which is the young man's extra-Luxury.

The first figure that caught Wilfrid's attention there was Mr.Pericles, in a white overcoat, stretched along a sofa--his eyelids being down, though his eyes were evidently vigilant beneath.