If the young ladies of the household thought it a pleasant thing to spend the brief November afternoons on that delightful esplanade beside the sea, Mr. Hillary did not find a residence in Brighton so entirely convenient. A great deal of his time was spent in journeyings to and fro by the best and quickest express train in England: and there were days when even the facilities of a Brighton railway would not enable the merchant to take his dinner in the society of his beautiful daughter and her companion. There were occasions on which the two girls sat for a wearisome hour or so, trying vainly to amuse themselves by some feminine occupation, or to beguile the time by some feminine discourse, while the soup grew cold and the Brightonian cook grew angry; and then at last were fain to sit down at nine o’clock, and make a dismal pretence of dining without the head of the household. “I sometimes think so much railway travelling must be bad for papa,” Maude said. “I am afraid it must shake him a little; though riding in the Brighton express is almost as good as sitting in one’s own room. I fancy papa has not looked so well lately. I have begged him to see Mr. Desborough, our Twickenham doctor, or some London physician; but it’s no use, for he won’t listen to me. I can’t tell you how uneasy I am about him, Julia. He has had so many of his bad headaches lately; and then he says the business in Moorgate Street has been so heavy. Ah, Julia! what is the good of being rich, if papa must work as he does?” Miss Desmond shrugged her shoulders. “Business men seem scarcely to exist out of their offices,” she said, rather scornfully. She always took care to let Maude know that she looked down upon the Twickenham splendour and its commercial sources. “I dare say your papa will devote himself to money-making as long as he lives.”