He did not go up to walk in the Park, for he knew there would be almost nobody there at that time of the year; but he walked up to Bond street and bought a pair of dress-boots, after which he returned to the club and played billiards with one of his companions of the previous evening until it was time to dress for dinner.

The party at the general’s was a sufficiently small one, for you cannot ask any one to dinner at a few hours’ notice, except it be a merry and marriageable widow who has been told that she will meet an elderly and marriageable bachelor.  This complaisant lady was present; and Mr. Roscorla found himself on his entrance being introduced to a good-looking, buxom dame, who had a healthy, merry, roseate face, very black eyes and hair, and a somewhat gorgeous dress.  She was a trifle demure at first, but her amiable shyness soon wore off, and she was most kind to Mr. Roscorla.  He, of course, had to take in Lady Weekes; but Mrs. Seton-Willoughby sat opposite him, and, while keeping the whole table amused with an account of her adventures in Galway, appeared to address the narrative principally to the stranger.

“Oh, my dear Lady Weekes,” she said, “I was so glad to get back to Brighton!  I thought I should have forgotten my own language, and taken to war-paint and feathers, if I had remained much longer.  And Brighton is so delightful just now—­just comfortably filled, without the November crush having set in.  Now, couldn’t you persuade the general to take you down for a few days?  I am going down on Friday, and you know how dreadful it is for a poor lone woman to be in a hotel, especially with a maid who spends all her time in flirting with the first-floor waiters.  Now, won’t you, dear?  I assure you the ——­ Hotel is most charming—­such freedom, and the pleasant parties they make up in the drawing-room!  I believe they have a ball two or three nights a week just now.”

“I should have thought you would have found the ——­ rather quieter,” said Mr. Roscorla, naming a good, old-fashioned house.

“Rather quieter?” said the widow, raising her eyebrows.  “Yes, a good deal quieter?  About as quiet as a dissenting chapel.  No, no:  if one means to have a little pleasure, why go to such a place as that?  Now, will you come and prove the truth of what I have told you?”

Mr. Roscorla looked alarmed, and even the solemn Lady Weekes had to conceal a smile.

“Of course I mean you to persuade our friends here to come too,” the widow explained.  “What a delightful frolic it would be—­for a few days, you know—­to break away from London!  Now, my dear, what do you say?”

She turned to her hostess.  That small and sombre person referred her to the general.  The general, on being appealed to, said he thought it would be a capital joke; and would Mr. Roscorla go with them?  Mr. Roscorla, not seeing why he should not have a little frolic of this sort, just like any one else, said he would.  So they agreed to meet at Victoria Station on the following Friday.