But her plans were suddenly broken asunder.

“I met Mrs. Lorraine accidentally to-day,” he said.

It was his first mention of the young American lady.  Sheila sat in mute expectation.

“She always asks very kindly after you.”

“She is very kind.”

He did not say, however, that Mrs. Lorraine had more than once made distinct propositions, when in his company, that they should call in for Sheila and take her out for a drive or to a flower-show, or some such place, while Lavender had always some excuse ready.

“She is going to Brighton to-morrow, and she was wondering whether you would care to run down for a day or two.”

“With her?” said Sheila, recoiling from such a proposal instinctively.

“Of course not.  I should go.  And then at last, you know, you would see the sea, about which you have been dreaming for ever so long.”

The sea!  There was a magic in the very word that could, almost at any moment, summon tears into her eyes.  Of course she accepted right gladly.  If her husband’s duties were so pressing that the long-talked-of journey to Lewis and Borva had to be repeatedly and indefinitely postponed, here at least would be a chance of looking again at the sea—­of drinking in the freshness and light and color of it—­of renewing her old and intimate friendship with it that had been broken off for so long by her stay in this city of perpetual houses and still sunshine.

“You can tell her you will go when you see her to-night at Lady Mary’s.  By the way, isn’t it time for you to begin to dress?”

“Oh, Lady Mary’s!” repeated Sheila mechanically, who had quite forgotten about her engagement for that evening.

“Perhaps you are too tired to go,” said her husband.

She was a little tired, in truth.  But surely, just after her promises, spoken and unspoken, some little effort was demanded of her; so she bravely went to dress, and in about three-quarters of an hour was ready to drive down to Curzon street.  Her husband had never seen her look so pleased before in going out to any party.  He flattered himself that his lecture had done her good.  There was fair common sense in what he had said, and although, doubtless, a girl’s romanticism was a pretty thing, it would have to yield to the actual requirements of society.  In time he should educate Sheila.

But he did not know what brightened the girl’s face all that night, and put a new life into the beautiful eyes, so that even those who knew her best were struck by her singular beauty.  It was the sea that was coloring Sheila’s eyes.  The people around her, the glare of the candles, the hum of talking, and the motion of certain groups dancing over there in the middle of the throng,—­all were faint and visionary, for she was busily wondering what the sea would be like the next morning, and what strange fancies would strike her when once more she walked