’I have a letter from Mr. Newthorpe very occasionally But surely the illness has not been serious?’

’Mamma heard this morning about it.  I don’t know what’s been the matter.  I shouldn’t wonder if they come to London before long.’

Egremont shortly changed his place, and saw that Dalmaine took the vacant seat by Paula.  The two seemed to get on very well together.  Paula was evidently exerting herself to be charming; Dalmaine was doing his best to trifle.

He sought more information from Mrs. Tyrrell regarding Mr. Newthorpe.  She seemed to fear that her brother-in-law might have been in more danger than Annabel in her letter admitted.

‘They certainly must come south,’ she said.  ’They are having a terrible winter, and it has evidently tried Mr. Newthorpe beyond his strength.  You have influence with him, I believe, Mr. Egremont.  Pray join me in my efforts to bring them both back to civilisation.’

‘I fear my influence will effect nothing if yours fails,’ said Walter.  ‘But Mr. Newthorpe should certainly not risk his health.’

He next had a chat with Mr. John Tyrrell, junior.  Paula’s brother was two-and-twenty, a frankly sensual youth, of admirable temper, great in turf matters, with a genius for conviviality.  Jack’s health was perfect, for he had his father’s habit of enjoying life without excess, and his stamina allowed a wide limit to the term moderation.  Like the rest of his family, he had the secret of conciliating goodwill; there was no humbug in him, and one respected him as a fine specimen of the young male developed at enormous expense.  For Egremont he had a certain reverence:  a man who habitually thought was clearly, he admitted, of a higher grade than himself, and he had no objection whatever to proclaim his own inferiority.  Egremont, talking with him, was half disposed to envy Jack Tyrrell.  What a simple thing life was with limitless cash, a perfect digestion, and good-humour in the place of brains!

His room seemed very cold and lonely when he got back to it shortly before midnight.  The fire had been let out; the books round the walls had a musty appearance; there was stale tobacco in the air.  He paced the floor, thinking of Annabel, wondering whether she would soon be in London, longing to see her.  And before he went to bed, he wrote a letter to Mr. Newthorpe, expressing the anxiety with which he had heard of his illness.  Of himself he said little; the few words that came to his pen concerning the Lambeth crusade were rather lifeless.

He was being talked of meanwhile in the Tyrrells’ drawing-room.  The last guests being gone, there was chat for a few minutes between the members of the family.

‘Egremont isn’t looking quite up to the mark,’ said Mr. Tyrrell, as he stood before the fire, hands in pockets.

‘I thought the same,’ said his wife.  ’He seems worried.  What a deplorable thing it is, to think that he will spend large sums of money on this library scheme!’