"I can't say, sir," said the man; "Mrs. Adaile is on the Continent." "Oh," said Conrad, with a heart-prank. She did live! He vacillated--and obeyed a second impulse; "Can you give me Mrs. Adaile's address?" The solemn person noted the pearl in the stranger's tie, the silk lining of the coat he unbuttoned, and the direction in which his hand was travelling. Mrs. Adaile was in Ostend. "Thenk you, sir." He named the hotel, and Conrad proceeded to Piccadilly enamoured of temptation. How tired he was of London! In any case he would go away; why shouldn't he go to Ostend? He had never been there--and he might sit next to her at dinner. It would be an absurdity of course, but---- The hero of thirty-seven with hair silvered at the temples, admonished him from every hoarding and he took a hansom to avoid his sedate contemporary's reproof. Entering the club, he walked through an avenue of decorators' ladders; the smoking-room was full of paint and pails. What could be more absurd than to remain in town? He winced as it occurred to him that Adaile might have been married twice. Supposing the "Mrs. Adaile" in Ostend proved to be a stranger, an unfamiliar person profaning a hallowed name? How complete a fool he would feel when he arrived! But he would not dwell on that contingency. "Far fetched," he said. Even a fate that showered disappointments as freely as if they were confetti must draw the line somewhere. He was among the tourists, and the luggage-thieves at Charing Cross by ten o'clock next morning. When he reached Ostend it was a fine afternoon, and the town was baking. By comparison London had been pleasant, so a multitude of Londoners had flocked to Ostend. With trepidation he beheld the hotel that sheltered her--what if he were unable to obtain a room in it? But no--so far, so good. Fate was, perhaps, napping in the heat--a room was to be had. He washed his face in No. 17 victoriously, and overlooked the scarlet geraniums, and the Faience fountain, glistening in a grass plot, and the red-striped sun-umbrellas that sprouted through the little tables. Nobody was visible among the basket chairs. A starling's twittering in a lilac bush, was the only voice. The number of his room chimed with his mood--a happy coincidence. To the manager's mind, at least, he was "seventeen" again. Again he stood in an hotel bedroom preparing to join her downstairs! Had she changed _very_ much?