"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in the flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,--sound in wind and limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?" "I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you." "I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?" "You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night." "The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening; "and the Argyll----" "I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather impatiently. "Suggest something calmer--musical, or that." "Oh, musical! That _is_ mild. I have been educated in the belief that a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, go to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely." "I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes and does it. Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away. With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what in the world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacant chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country. "You are late,--late," says this stranger, in perfect English, and, with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "She has just sung." "Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?" "Miss--Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss." "I am unlucky," says Luttrell, feeling some slight disappointment,--very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I came expressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well."