On the birthday eve he dined with the rest.  Lady Blandish was there, and sat penitently at his right.  Hippias prognosticated certain indigestion for himself on the morrow.  The Eighteenth Century wondered whether she should live to see another birthday.  Adrian drank the two-years’ distant term of his tutorship, and Algernon went over the list of the Lobourne men who would cope with Bursley on the morrow.  Sir Austin gave ear and a word to all, keeping his mental eye for his son.  To please Lady Blandish also, Adrian ventured to make trifling jokes about London’s Mrs. Grandison; jokes delicately not decent, but so delicately so, that it was not decent to perceive it.

After dinner Richard left them.  Nothing more than commonly peculiar was observed about him, beyond the excessive glitter of his eyes, but the baronet said, “Yes, yes! that will pass.”  He and Adrian, and Lady Blandish, took tea in the library, and sat till a late hour discussing casuistries relating mostly to the Apple-disease.  Converse very amusing to the wise youth, who could suggest to the two chaste minds situations of the shadiest character, with the air of a seeker after truth, and lead them, unsuspecting, where they dared not look about them.  The Aphorist had elated the heart of his constant fair worshipper with a newly rounded if not newly conceived sentence, when they became aware that they were four.  Heavy Benson stood among them.  He said he had knocked, but received no answer.  There was, however, a vestige of surprise and dissatisfaction on his face beholding Adrian of the company, which had not quite worn away, and gave place, when it did vanish, to an aspect of flabby severity.

“Well, Benson? well?” said the baronet.

The unmoving man replied:  “If you please, Sir Austin—­Mr. Richard!”

“Well!”

“He’s out!”

“Well?”

“With Bakewell!”

“Well?”

“And a carpet-bag!”

The carpet-bag might be supposed to contain that funny thing called a young hero’s romance in the making.

Out Richard was, and with a carpet-bag, which Tom Bakewell carried.  He was on the road to Bellingham, under heavy rain, hasting like an escaped captive, wild with joy, while Tom shook his skin, and grunted at his discomforts.  The mail train was to be caught at Bellingham.  He knew where to find her now, through the intervention of Miss Davenport, and thither he was flying, an arrow loosed from the bow:  thither, in spite of fathers and friends and plotters, to claim her, and take her, and stand with her against the world.

They were both thoroughly wet when they entered Bellingham, and Tom’s visions were of hot drinks.  He hinted the necessity for inward consolation to his master, who could answer nothing but “Tom!  Tom!  I shall see her tomorrow!” It was bad—­travelling in the wet, Tom hinted again, to provoke the same insane outcry, and have his arm seized and furiously shaken into the bargain.  Passing the principal inn of the place, Tom spoke plainly for brandy.