The walk on the old pier was pleasant enough in the morning sun.  Though yet but the first month in the year, the days were bright, the blue skies without a cloud.  Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn had enjoyed the fine weather at Cheltenham for a week or two; from that pretty place they had now come to Brighton, reaching it the previous night.

“Oh, it is delightful!” exclaimed Eliza, gazing at the waves.  She had not seen the sea since she crossed it, a little girl, from the West Indies.  Those were not yet the days when all people, gentle and simple, told one another that an autumn tour was essential to existence.  “Look at the sunbeams sparkling on the ripples and on the white sails of the little boats!  Philip, I should like to spend a month here.”

“All right,” replied Mr. Hamlyn.

They were staying at the Old Ship, a fashionable hotel then for ladies as well as gentlemen, and had come out after breakfast; and they had the pier nearly to themselves at that early hour.  A yellow, gouty gentleman, who looked as if he had quarrelled with his liver in some clime all fire and cayenne, stood at the end leaning on his stick, alternately looking at the sea and listlessly watching any advancing stragglers.

There came a sailor, swaying along, a rope in his hand; following him, walked demurely three little girls in frocks and trousers, with their French governess; then came two eye-glassed young men, dandyfied and supercilious, who appeared to have more money than brains—­and the jaundiced man went into a gaping fit of lassitude.

Anyone else coming?  Yes; a lady and gentleman arm-in-arm:  quiet, well-dressed, good-looking.  As the invalid watched their approach, a puzzled look of doubt and surprise rose to his countenance.  Moving forward a step or two on his gouty legs, he spoke.

“Can it be possible, Hamlyn, that we meet here?”

Even through his dark skin a red flush coursed into Mr. Hamlyn’s face.  He was evidently very much surprised in his turn, if not startled.

“Captain Pratt!” he exclaimed.

“Major Pratt now,” was the answer, as they shook hands.  “That wretched climate played the deuce with me, and they graciously gave me a step and allowed me to retire upon it.  The very deuce, I assure you, Philip.  Beg pardon, ma’am,” he added seeing the lady look at him.

“My wife, Mrs. Hamlyn,” spoke her husband.

Major Pratt contrived to lift his hat, and bow:  which feat, what with his gouty hands and his helpless legs and his great invalid stick, was a work of time.  “I saw your marriage in The Times, Hamlyn, and wondered whether it could be you, or not:  I didn’t know, you see, that you were over here.  Wish you luck; and you also, ma’am.  Hope it will turn out more fortunate for you, Philip, than—­”

“Where are you staying?” broke in Mr. Hamlyn, as if something were frightening him.