She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come for her in an hour.  She watched the strollers on the pier as they had done the previous evening; not in crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at intervals.  There came a gouty man, in a list shoe, there came three young ladies and their governess, there came two fast puppies in shooting jackets and eye-glasses, which they turned with a broad stare on Lady Isabel; but there was something about her which caused them to drop their glasses and their ill manners together.  After an interval, there appeared another, a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man.  Her eyes fell upon him; and—­what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to vibrate, every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus advancing and changing the monotony of her mind into tumult?  It was that of one whom she was soon to find had never been entirely forgotten.

Captain Levison came slowly on, approaching the pier where she sat.  He glanced at her; not with the hardihood displayed by the two young men, but with quite sufficiently evident admiration.

“What a lovely girl!” thought he to himself.  “Who can she be, sitting there alone?”

All at once a recollection flashed into his mind; he raised his hat and extended his hand, his fascinating smile in full play.

“I certainly cannot be mistaken.  Have I the honor of once more meeting Lady Isabel Vane?”

She rose from the seat, and allowed him to take her hand, answering a few words at random, for her wits seemed wool-gathering.

“I beg your pardon—­I should have said Lady Isabel Carlyle.  Time has elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again so unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then.”

She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away upon her cheeks.  It was the loveliest face Francis Levison had seen since he saw hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it.

“What can have brought you to this place?” he inquired, taking a seat beside her.

“I have been ill,” she explained, “and am ordered to the sea-side.  We should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducie; we expected to meet her.  Mr. Carlyle only left me this morning.”

“Mrs. Ducie is off to Ems.  I see them occasionally.  They have been fixtures in Paris for some time.  You do indeed look ill,” he abruptly added, in a tone of sympathy, “alarmingly ill.  Is there anything I can do for you?”

She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for the agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving her face an ashy whiteness.  Exceedingly vexed and angry with herself did she feel that the meeting should have power to call forth emotion.  Until that moment she was unconscious that she retained any sort of feeling for Captain Levison.

“Perhaps I have ventured out too early,” she said, in a tone that would seem to apologize for her looks:  “I think I will return.  I shall meet my servant, no doubt.  Good-morning, Captain Levison.”