Eleonora Vivian had been much admired at first, but her cold manner kept every one at a distance, and her reserve was hardly ever seen to relax.  However, her one friendship with the Strangeways family gave Raymond hopes that her constancy was not proof against the flattering affection, backed by wealth, that seemed to await her there.  The best he could wish for Frank was that the infatuation might be over as soon as possible, though he pitied the poor fellow sincerely when he saw him, as he did to-night, waiting with scarcely concealed anxiety while Miss Vivian stood listening to a long discourse about yachting from an eager pair of chattering girls.

Then some break occurred, and Frank moved up to her.  “Your last evening!  How little I have seen of you!”

“Little indeed!”

“I called, but you were at the Strangeways’.”

“They are very kind to me.  When is your holiday?”

“Not till spring, but I may get a few days in the autumn:  you will be at home?”

“As far as I know.”

“If I thought for a moment you cared to see me; but you have shown few signs of wishing it of late.”

“Frank—­if I could make you understand—­”

They were walking towards a recess, when Lady Tyrrell fastened upon
Raymond.  “Pray find my sister; she forgets that we have to be at
Lady Granby’s—­Oh! are you there, Lenore!  Will you see her down,
Mr. Poynsett?  Well, Frank, did you get as far as you intended?”

And she went down on his arm, her last words being, “Take care of yourself till we meet at home.  For this one year I call Sirenwood home—­then!”

Raymond and Lenore said no more to one another.  The ladies were put into the carriage.  The elder brother bade Frank take care of Cecil, and started for Westminster with the poor lad’s blank and disappointed face still before his eyes, hoping at least it was well for him, but little in love with life, or what it had to offer.

CHAPTER XXI Awfully Jolly

When life becomes a spasm,
   And history a whiz,
If that is not sensation,
   I don’t know what it is.—­LEWIS CARROLL

“Is Lady Rosamond at home?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Nor Mrs. Charnock?”

“No, ma’am; they are both gone down to the Rectory.”

“Would you ask whether Mrs. Poynsett would like to see me?”

“I’ll inquire, ma’am, if you will walk in,” said Mr. Jenkins moved by the wearied and heated looks of Miss Vivian, who had evidently come on foot at the unseasonable visiting hour of 11.15 a.m.

The drawing-room was empty, but, with windows open on the shady side, was most inviting to one who had just become unpleasantly aware that her walking capacity had diminished under the stress of a London season, and that a very hampering one.  She was glad of the rest, but it lasted long enough to be lost in the uncomfortable consciousness that hers was too truly a morning call, and she would have risen and escaped had not that been worse.