Horace was to come up to London in the third week of December, and to be married on New Year’s Day; the honeymoon would be spent at Ventnor, or somewhere thereabout. Afraid to lose sight of her relative for more than a week or two, Mrs. Damerel had already been twice to Bournemouth, and now she decided to go for a third time, just to talk quietly over the forthcoming event, and, whether Horace broached the subject or not, to apprise him of the straits into which she was drifting. Unannounced by letter, she reached Bournemouth early in the afternoon, and went straight to Horace’s lodgings. The young man had just finished luncheon, and, all things considered, including the fact that it was a remarkably bright and warm day for the time of year, he might have been expected to welcome Mrs. Damerel cheerfully. Yet on seeing her his countenance fell; he betrayed an embarrassment which the lady noted with anxious suspicion. ‘Aren’t you glad to see me, dear boy?’ she began, with a kiss upon his cheek. ‘Yes--oh yes. I never dreamt of your appearing just now, that was all.’ ‘I couldn’t resist the temptation. Such a morning in London! Almost as fine as it is here. And how is your cough?’ Even as she made the inquiry, he answered it by coughing very badly. ‘I don’t think this place suits you, Horace,’ said Mrs. Damerel gravely. ‘You’re not imprudent, I hope? Don’t go out after dark?’ Oh, it was nothing, Horace maintained; for several days he had hardly coughed at all. But with every word he uttered, Mrs. Damerel became more convinced of something unusual in his state of mind; he could not keep still, and, in trying to put himself at ease, assumed strange postures. ‘When did you hear from Winifred?’ she asked. ‘Yesterday--no, the day before.’ He shrank from her scrutiny, and an expression of annoyance began to disturb his features. Mrs. Damerel knew well enough the significance of that particular look; it meant the irritation of his self-will, the summoning of forces to resist something he disliked. ‘There has been no difference between you, I hope?’ ‘No--oh no,’ Horace replied, wriggling under her look. At that moment a servant opened the door. ‘Two ladies have called in a carriage, sir, and would like to see you.’ ‘I’ll go down. Excuse me for a moment, aunt.’ ‘Who are they, Horace?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, rising with an ill-concealed look of dismay. ‘Some friends I have made here. I’ll just go and speak to them.’