The strange medley of foreign sounds in the vast space of the Kongens Nytorv were forgotten and unheard, for Chute's mind was revelling amid other scenes and places now. He was even thinking over the Derby to which Vane had alluded, and he recalled the days when he had been a species of pet in 'the Brigade,' when he looked forward to the Derby as the great event of the year, and his own delight when he first drove the regimental drag, the selection of the horses, the ordering of the luncheon, the colour of the veils, and the road along which all the world of London seemed pouring, the golden laburnums at Balham in all their glory, the hawthorn hedges at Ewell, the beeches and chestnuts that shaded the dusty way, the myriads on the course, the wonderful bird's-eye view from the grand-stand, the excitement of the races, the stakes and the bets, from thousands to pretty boxes of delicate gloves for Clare and others; all of which he should never enjoy as he had enjoyed them once. And now impatience made him peripatetic, so he rang for his valet, Travers. 'Pack up, Tom,' said he; 'we leave Copenhagen to-morrow.' 'All right, sir--for where?' 'Lubeck. Have a droski ready at ten; I shall take the morning train.' Travers saluted and withdrew, without thinking or caring whether Lubeck was in Hanover, Hindostan, or the island of Laputa. It was the merest whim or chance in the world that led to the selection of Lubeck as a place to be visited; but Trevor Chute could little foresee whom he was to meet there, or all that meeting led to. CHAPTER XIII. BY THE EXPRESS FOR LUBECK. Though Trevor Chute's old habits of decision and activity remained, a new kind of life had come upon him of late; thus he who had found the greatest pleasure in his military duties and attending to the wants of his men, in the saddle hunting, enjoying the day-dawn gallop, or with his rifle and hog-spear, watching under the fierce sun-glare for the red-eyed tiger or the bristly boar, as they came to drink in some secluded nullah, had now changed into one of the veriest day-dreamers that ever let the slow hours steal past him uselessly in succession. So that time were got through, he cared little how. Would Vane join him? He rather fancied that he would not. Nor did he wish it, though Jerry was the friend he valued most in the world, for the urgent reason that through him alone could he hear aught of her to whom he could not write, and who would not write to him. Thus Chute lived in a little world of his own, lighted up by the remembered face of Clare and the hopes she had bade him cherish. He marvelled much how Jerry's love affair was progressing, and whether Ida would yet forget his other friend, Jack Beverley. He thought not, by all he knew of her, yet wished that she should do so, for Jerry's sake. There was much of humility in the latter, and he held himself of small account with her.