Once more he drew his beloved manuscript from its hiding-place.  He did not mean to read, only to fondle; but his eye chancing to fall on a special passage—­two hours afterwards he was interrupted by the dinner-gong.  He returned the pages to the box and wiped his eyes.  While dressing hurriedly he remembered with languid interest that Lady Pippinworth was staying in the same hotel.

There were a hundred or more at dinner, and they were all saying the same thing:  “Where have you been to-day?” “Really! but the lower path is shadier.”  “Is this your first visit?” “The glacier is very nice.”  “Were you caught in the rain?” “The view from the top is very nice.”  “After all, the rain lays the dust.”  “They give you two sweets at Bad-Platten and an ice on Sunday.”  “The sunset is very nice.”  “The poulet is very nice.”  The hotel is open during the summer months only, but probably the chairs in the dining-room and the knives and forks in their basket make these remarks to each other every evening throughout the winter.

Being a newcomer, Tommy had not been placed beside either of his friends, who sat apart “because,” Mrs. Jerry said, “she calls me mamma, and I am not going to stand that.”  For some time he gave thought to neither of them; he was engrossed in what he had been reading, and it turned him into a fine and magnanimous character.  When gradually her Ladyship began to flit among his reflections, it was not to disturb them, but because she harmonized.  He wanted to apologize to her.  The apology grew in grace as the dinner progressed; it was so charmingly composed that he was profoundly stirred by it.

The opportunity came presently in the hall, where it is customary after dinner to lounge or stroll if you are afraid of the night air.  Or if you do not care for music, you can go into the drawing-room and listen to the piano.

“I am sure mamma is looking for you everywhere,” Lady Pippinworth said, when Tommy took a chair beside her.  “It is her evening, you know.”

“Surely you would not drive me away,” he replied with a languishing air, and then smiled at himself, for he was done with this sort of thing.  “Lady Pippinworth,” said he, firmly—­it needs firmness when of late you have been saying “Alice.”

“Well?”

“I have been thinking——­” Tommy began.

“I am sure you have,” she said.

“I have been thinking,” he went on determinedly, “that I played a poor part this afternoon.  I had no right to say what I said to you.”

“As far as I can remember,” she answered, “you did not say very much.”

“It is like your generosity, Lady Pippinworth,” he said, “to make light of it; but let us be frank:  I made love to you.”

Anyone looking at his expressionless face and her lazy disdain (and there were many in the hall) would have guessed that their talk was of where were you to-day? and what should I do to-morrow?

“You don’t really mean that?” her Ladyship said incredulously.  “Think, Mr. Sandys, before you tell me anything more.  Are you sure you are not confusing me with mamma?”