Consequently Richard did not want money.  What he wanted more, and did not get, was a word from his father, and though he said nothing to sadden his young bride, she felt how much it preyed upon him to be at variance with the man whom, now that he had offended him and gone against him, he would have fallen on his knees to; the man who was as no other man to him.  She heard him of nights when she lay by his side, and the darkness, and the broken mutterings, of those nights clothed the figure of the strange stern man in her mind.  Not that it affected the appetites of the pretty pair.  We must not expect that of Cupid enthroned and in condition; under the influence of sea-air, too.  The files of egg-cups laugh at such an idea.  Still the worm did gnaw them.  Judge, then, of their delight when, on this pleasant morning, as they were issuing from the garden of their cottage to go down to the sea, they caught sight of Tom Bakewell rushing up the road with a portmanteau on his shoulders, and, some distance behind him, discerned Adrian.

“It’s all right!” shouted Richard, and ran off to meet him, and never left his hand till he had hauled him up, firing questions at him all the way, to where Lucy stood.

“Lucy! this is Adrian, my cousin.”—­“Isn’t he an angel?” his eyes seemed to add; while Lucy’s clearly answered, “That he is!”

The full-bodied angel ceremoniously bowed to her, and acted with reserved unction the benefactor he saw in their greetings.  “I think we are not strangers,” he was good enough to remark, and very quickly let them know he had not breakfasted; on hearing which they hurried him into the house, and Lucy put herself in motion to have him served.

“Dear old Rady,” said Richard, tugging at his hand again, “how glad I am you’ve come!  I don’t mind telling you we’ve been horridly wretched.”

“Six, seven, eight, nine eggs,” was Adrian’s comment on a survey of the breakfast-table.

“Why wouldn’t he write?  Why didn’t he answer one of my letters?  But here you are, so I don’t mind now.  He wants to see us, does he?  We’ll go up to-night.  I’ve a match on at eleven; my little yacht—­I’ve called her the ’Blandish’—­against Fred Cuirie’s ‘Begum.’  I shall beat, but whether I do or not, we’ll go up to-night.  What’s the news?  What are they all doing?”

“My dear boy!” Adrian returned, sitting comfortably down, “let me put myself a little more on an equal footing with you before I undertake to reply.  Half that number of eggs will be sufficient for an unmarried man, and then we’ll talk.  They’re all very well, as well as I can recollect after the shaking my total vacuity has had this morning.  I came over by the first boat, and the sea, the sea has made me love mother earth, and desire of her fruits.”

Richard fretted restlessly opposite his cool relative.

“Adrian! what did he say when he heard of it?  I want to know exactly what words he said.”