"You brought her down to Eastbourne to-day?" "Oh, I've been dangling about town a little by myself; Mamie and my sister have been here a week. Good-night, old chap; shall I see you to-morrow? You might give us a look in if you will--say in the afternoon. Belle Vue Mansion; don't forget!" "Where?" exclaimed Heriot, startled into interest. "Belle Vue Mansion," repeated Cheriton, gripping his hand. "You can't miss it: a big pink house on the Esplanade." CHAPTER II Heriot betook himself there on the following day with a curious eagerness. If the girl he had noticed should prove to be Cheriton's daughter, how odd it would be! He at once hoped for the coincidence, and found the possibility a shade pathetic. It emphasised his years to think that the ill-kept child of the dirty studio might have become the girl he had admired. His progress during the interval appeared momentarily insignificant to him; he felt that while a brat became a woman he ought to have done much more. He was discouraged to reflect that he had not taken silk; for he had always intended to take silk, and had small misgivings that he would have cause to repent it. His practice had indicated for some time that he would not suffer by the step, and yet he had delayed his application. His motto had been, "Slow and sure," but it seemed to him suddenly that he had been too slow; his income as a Junior should not have contented him so long. He pulled the bell, and was preceded up the stairs by a maid-servant, who opened a door, and announced him to the one occupant of the room. Heriot saw that she was the girl of the balcony and the terrace, and that she moved towards him smiling. "I am Mamie Cheriton," she said. "My father is expecting you." Her intonation was faintly American, but her voice was full and sweet. He took her hand with pleasure, and a touch of excitement that did not concord with his countenance, which was formal and impassive. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Cheriton." "Won't you sit down?" she said. "He will be here in a minute." Heriot took a seat, and decided that her eyes were even lovelier than he had known. "When I saw you last, you were a child," he remarked inaccurately. "Yes; it must have astonished you meeting my father again after so many years. It was funny, your being here, wasn't it?... But perhaps you often come to Eastbourne?" "No," said Heriot, "no, I don't often come. How does it strike you, Miss Cheriton? I suppose you can hardly remember England, can you?" "Well, I shan't be sorry to be settled in London; it was London I was anxious to go to, not the sea-shore.... Do you say 'sea-shore' in Europe, or is it wrong? When I said 'sea-shore' this morning, I noticed that a woman stared at me." "One generally says 'seaside' over here; I don't know that it's important."