Still intent upon his Continental scheme, and somewhat impatiently waiting the arrival of Jerry Vane, Trevor Chute was idling over a late breakfast, so full of thoughts--sweet, regretful, and angry thoughts--of Clare Collingwood that he seemed like one in a dream. It was nearly noon. The sun of May was bathing in light the leafy foliage of the Green Park, and throwing its shadows darkly and strongly on the green below; while the far extent of the lofty street seemed all aglow and quivering in the sunshine. How fair and fresh the world looked, and yet, since his last interview with Clare, everything seemed indistinct and unusual to his senses. 'Bah!' thought he; 'to-night Jerry and I shall be in France, and then----' What _then_, he scarcely knew. The current of his ideas changed, for times there were, and this became one of them, when he longed morbidly to go through all the luxury of grief and sentiment in taking that which he had never before taken, save by letter--a last farewell of her; to beg of her to let no hour of sorrow for him mar her peace, no regret for his loss of fortune, a loss that was no fault of his own; to think of him with no pain, but with a soft memory of their past love, or to forget him, though he never could, or should, forget _her_, but would ever treasure in his heart how dear she had been to him, etc., etc.; and in this mood he was indulging, when his valet laid before him a note, the envelope of which caused him to feel a kind of electric shock. It bore the Collingwood crest. With hands tremulous as those of an agitated girl, he tore it open, and found that it was from Sir Carnaby Collingwood--a brief invitation to dine with him at his club at eight to-morrow evening (if disengaged), 'that they might have a little talk over old times.' 'Old times,' he repeated; 'what does that phrase mean?' He had read over the note for the fourth or fifth time when Jerry Vane arrived. He, too, had a similar invitation, but in that there was nothing remarkable, as he had never ceased to be on terms of intimacy with Sir Carnaby. 'What _can_ old Collingwood mean by this invitation to smoke the calumet of peace?' exclaimed Trevor Chute. 'Time will show.' 'After the cutting tenor of the letter he sent me--that cold and formal letter of dismissal--I--I----' 'Forget it, like the good fellow you are; and remember only that he is the father of Clare Collingwood.' 'True.' 'You'll go, of course?' said Jerry, after a pause; but Chute was silent. His pride suggested that under all the circumstances, especially if what 'the clubs said' were true, he should decline the invitation. But why? He had already been at the Collingwoods', but on a special mission, certainly. Then Sir Carnaby was proud, and it was impossible to forget that the first formal advance had come from him. More than all, as Jerry Vane had said, he was the father of Clare, of her who had never ceased to be the idol of all his thoughts.