’Did ye notice the pink-faced bald little man at me right?  That’s Cornel Escott, C.B., retired.  He takes a sea-bath every morning, to live up to the letters; and faith, it’s an act of heroism, no less, in weather the like of this.  Three weeks have I been here, and but wan day of sunshine, and the mercury never above fifty.  The other fellow, him at me left, is what you’d be slow to suspect by the look of him, I’ll go bail; and that’s a bar’net, Sir Richard Maistre, with a place in Hampshire, and ten thousand a year if he’s a penny.  The young lady beside yourself rejoices in the euphonious name of Hicks, and trains her Popper and Mommer behind her like slaves in a Roman triumph.  They’re Americans, if you must have the truth, though I oughtn’t to tell it on them, for I’m an Irishman myself, and it’s not for the pot to be bearing tales of the kettle.  However, their tongues bewray them; so I’ve violated no confidence.’

The knowledge that my young man was a baronet with a place in Hampshire somewhat disenchanted me.  A baronet with a place in Hampshire left too little to the imagination.  The description seemed to curtail his potentialities, to prescribe his orbit, to connote turnip-fields, house-parties, and a whole system of British commonplace.  Yet, when, the next day at luncheon, I again had him before me in the flesh, my interest revived.  Its lapse had been due to an association of ideas which I now recognised as unscientific.  A baronet with twenty places in Hampshire would remain at the end of them all a human being; and no human being could be finished off in a formula of half a dozen words.  Sir Richard Maistre, anyhow, couldn’t be.  He was enigmatic, and his effect upon me was enigmatic too.  Why did I feel that tantalising inclination to stare at him, coupled with that reluctance frankly to engage in talk with him?  Why did he attack his luncheon with that appearance of grim resolution?  For a minute, after he had taken his seat, he eyed his knife, fork, and napkin, as a labourer might a load that he had to lift, measuring the difficulties he must cope with; then he gave his head a resolute nod, and set to work.  To-day, as yesterday, he said very little, murmured an occasional remark into the ear of Flaherty, accompanying it usually with a sudden short smile; but he listened to everything, and did so with apparent appreciation.

Our proceedings were opened by Miss Hicks, who asked Colonel Escott, ‘Well, Colonel, have you had your bath this morning?’

The Colonel chuckled, and answered, ’Oh, yes—­yes, yes—­couldn’t forego my bath, you know—­couldn’t possibly forego my bath.’

‘And what was the temperature of the water?’ she continued.

’Fifty-two—­fifty-two—­three degrees warmer than the air—­three degrees,’ responded the Colonel, still chuckling, as if the whole affair had been extremely funny.

‘And you, Mr. Flaherty, I suppose you’ve been to Bayonne?’

‘No, I’ve broken me habit, and not left the hotel.’