and more than once obliged her husband to seek temporary peace in lodgings.  He left home at eight o’clock every morning, and returned as late as possible.  The necessity of passing long evenings made him haunt places of entertainment, and he sometimes had recourse to drink,—­he by nature the soberest of men,—­in fear of what awaited him on his tardy appearance at Brixton.  A month after Ada’s confinement he once more acted a sane part, and announced by letter that he would die rather than continue living with his wife.  As it was fine autumn weather he went down to a seaside place, where his Canterbury relatives and the little boy joined him for a holiday of several weeks.  Again Ada was to receive an allowance.  She despatched a few very virulent post-cards, but presently grew quiet, and appeared to accept the situation.

In early winter Fanny French came over to England.  She had again been ill, and this time with results obviously graver.  Her first call was upon Beatrice, who still occupied the flat at Brixton, and here she unbosomed herself of a dolorous story.  All her money had vanished; stolen, most of it, Fanny declared; she was without resources, and, as any one could see, in a wretched state of health.  Would Beatrice have compassion on her?  Would she lend her money till she was well enough to ‘look round’?

Miss.  French at once took the girl into her own home, and had her looked after.  Fanny coughed in an alarming way; the doctor, speaking privately with Beatrice, made an unpleasant report; was it possible to send the patient to a mild climate for the winter months?  Yes, Miss.  French could manage that, and would.  A suitable attendant having been procured, Fanny was despatched to Bournemouth, whence, in a day or two, she wrote to her sister thus: 

’You’ve been awfully kind to me, and I shan’t forget it when I’m well again.  Feel a good deal fitter already.  Dullish place this, but I’ve got to put up with it.  I’ve had a letter from Ada.  If you see her, tell her she’s a beast, and I wish Arthur would wring her scraggy neck.  She says it’s all my own fault; wait till I’m back again, and I’ll pay her a call.  My own fault indeed!  It seems to me I’m very much to be pitied.’

Walking one day along the sea-front by herself, Fanny observed a young man’s figure a few paces in advance of her, which seemed to awaken recollections.  Presently the young man turned and showed, beyond doubt, the countenance of Horace Lord.  He met her eyes, gave a doubtful, troubled look, and was going past when Fanny accosted him.

‘Well, don’t you know me?’

’Why, it is—­it really is!  How glad I am to see you!  But what on earth are you doing here?’

‘Amusing myself—­comme vous voyez; and you?’

‘Oh, doing the same.’

They had shaken hands, and were sauntering on together.

‘Anything wrong with your health?’ Fanny asked, scrutinising the pale thin face, with its touch of warmth on the cheeks.