It was a damp and depressing day on which Lord Walderhurst arrived in London.

As his carriage turned into Berkeley Square he sat in the corner of it rather huddled in his travelling-wraps and looking pale and thin.
He was wishing that London had chosen to show a more exhilarating countenance to him, but he himself was conscious of being possessed by something more nearly approaching a mood of eagerness than he remembered experiencing at any period of his previous existence.

He had found the voyage home long, and had been restless.

He wanted to see his wife.

How agreeable it would be to meet, when he looked across the dinner-table, the smile in her happy eyes.