Mrs. Crickledon’s dinner and the state of his heart made young Fellingham indifferent to a wintry atmosphere.  It sufficed him that the night was fair.  He stretched himself on the shingle, thinking of the Manzanilla, and Annette, and the fine flavour given to tobacco by a dry still air in moonlight—­thinking of his work, too, in the background, as far as mental lassitude would allow of it.  The idea of taking Annette to see his first play at the theatre when it should be performed—­was very soothing.  The beach rather looked like a stage, and the sea like a ghostly audience, with, if you will, the broadside bulks of black sailing craft at anchor for representatives of the newspaper piers.  Annette was a nice girl; if a little commonplace and low-born, yet sweet.  What a subject he could make of her father!  “The Deserter” offered a new complication.  Fellingham rapidly sketched it in fancy—­Van Diemen, as a Member of the Parliament of Great Britain, led away from the House of Commons to be branded on the bank!  What a magnificent fall!  We have so few intensely dramatic positions in English real life that the meditative author grew enamoured of this one, and laughed out a royal “Ha!” like a monarch reviewing his well-appointed soldiery.

“There you are,” said Van Diemen’s voice; “I smelt your pipe.  You’re a rum fellow, to belying out on the beach on a cold night.  Lord!  I don’t like you the worse for it.  Twas for the romance of the moon in my young days.”

“Where is Annette?” said Fellingham, jumping to his feet.

“My daughter?  She ’s taking leave of her intended.”

“What’s that?” Fellingham gasped.  “Good heavens, Mr. Smith, what do you mean?”

“Pick up your pipe, my lad.  Girls choose as they please, I suppose”

“Her intended, did you say, sir?  What can that mean?”

“My dear good young fellow, don’t make a fuss.  We’re all going to stay here, and very glad to see you from time to time.  The fact is, I oughtn’t to have quarrelled with Mart Tinman as I’ve done; I’m too peppery by nature.  The fact is, I struck him, and he forgave it.  I could n’t have done that myself.  And I believe I’m in for a headache to-morrow; upon my soul, I do.  Mart Tinman would champagne us; but, poor old boy, I struck him, and I couldn’t make amends—­didn’t see my way; and we joined hands over the glass—­to the deuce with the glass!—­ and the end of it is, Netty—­she did n’t propose it, but as I’m in his —­I say, as I had struck him, she—­it was rather solemn, if you had seen us—­she burst into tears, and there was Mrs. Cavely, and old Mart, and me as big a fool—­if I’m not a villain!”

Fellingham perceived a more than common effect of Tin man’s wine.  He touched Van Diemen on the shoulder.  “May I beg to hear exactly what has happened?”

“Upon my soul, we’re all going to live comfortably in Old England, and no more quarreling and decamping,” was the stupid rejoinder.  “Except that I did n’t exactly—­I think you said I exactly’?—­I did n’t bargain for old Mart as my—­but he’s a sound man; Mart’s my junior; he’s rich.  He’s eco . . . he’s eco . . . you know—­my Lord! where’s my brains?—­but he’s upright—­’nomical!”