It was late when we arrived, and we put up at the hotel, which, like every thing else in Worthing, has an air of languor and idleness about it. We liked the tone of the house. An eternal twilight brooded over the rooms and passages. Every chamber was occupied, yet the place was as still as a church. If you heard a footstep, it went stealthily as if it were muffled, or "shod with felt;" and the only signs of life you caught from the adjoining apartments, were when some noiseless lady in a morning dress glided into the balcony, and after a side-long look at the sea, glided back again. Out of doors, the order of the day was vigorous promenading, but even this was conducted almost speechlessly, except when a friendly group happened to collect and stop short, and then you could hear an occasional joke and burst of laughter. The promenade was the grand thing. It was not sauntering for relaxation, but brisk exercise, that threw the blood into activity and exhilarated the spirits. In the course of a week, we came to know every face in Worthing by the introduction which this lusty amusement afforded us, and every body in Worthing knew our faces. We were all out at a given hour, tramping up and down at a swinging pace, and passing and repassing each other so often, that we were as familiar with the whole guest population of the place, and the whole guest population with us, as if we had known each other all our lives. Every body had acquaintances there except ourselves. We could see them making up little parties for excursions, soirées, and other amusements; trifles that amused us as lookers-on, but, nevertheless, made us feel our loneliness. We were _in_ the crowd, but not _of_ it. Yet it was better to be in the open air among strangers than to dwell in the desert.