They went to Brighton, and a very pleasant time of it they had at the big noisy hotel. The weather was delightful. Mrs. Seton-Willoughby was excessively fond of riding: forenoon and afternoon they had their excursions, with the pleasant little dinner of the evening to follow. Was not this a charmed land into which the former hermit of Basset Cottage was straying? Of course, he never dreamed for a moment of marrying this widow: that was out of the question. She was just a little too demonstrative--very clever and amusing for half an hour or so, but too gigantic a blessing to be taken through life. It was the mere possibility of marrying her, however, which attracted Mr. Roscorla. He honestly believed, judging by her kindness to him, that if he seriously tried he could get her to marry him--in other words, that he might become possessed of eight thousand pounds a year. This money, so to speak, was within his reach; and it was only now that he was beginning to see that money could purchase many pleasures even for the middle-aged. He made a great mistake in imagining, down in Cornwall, that he had lived his life, and that he had but to look forward to mild enjoyments, a peaceful wandering onward to the grave, and the continual study of economy in domestic affairs. He was only now beginning to live. "And when are you coming back?" said the widow to him one evening when they were all talking of his leaving England. "That I don't know," he said. "Of course," she said, "you don't mean to remain in the West Indies. I suppose lots of people have to go there for some object or other, but they always come back when it is attained." "They come back to attain some other object here," said Mr. Roscorla. "Then we'll soon find you that," the general burst in. "No man lives out of England who can help it. Don't you find in this country enough to satisfy you?" "Indeed I do," Mr. Roscorla said, "especially within the last few days. I have enjoyed myself enormously. I shall always have a friendly recollection of Brighton." "Are you going down to Cornwall before you leave?" Sir Percy asked. "No," said he slowly. "That isn't quite so cheerful as Brighton, eh?" "Not quite." He kept his word. He did not go back to Cornwall before leaving England, nor did he send a single line or message to any one there. It was with something of a proud indifference that he set sail, and also with some notion that he was being amply revenged. For the rest, he hated "scenes," and he had encountered quite enough of these during his brief visit to Eglosilyan. CHAPTER XL. AN OLD LADY'S APOLOGY.