But suddenly he became aware of some movement at the table along there; and quickly he lowered his look. Then he knew—he did not see—that someone was coming down the long room. He breathed hard, with a sort of fear—and it was not the fear of any man; he wished he had not come into this place; could he not even now escape? "Vincent!" The voice thrilled through him; he looked up; and here was Maisrie Bethune regarding him—regarding him with those eyes so beautiful, so shining, so tender, and reproachful! "Did you not see us? Why should you avoid us?" The tone in which she spoke pierced his very heart; but still—but still—there was that stranger at the table yonder. "I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he. "I did not wish to intrude." "You are unkind." Then she stood for a moment uncertain. It was a brave thing for this girl to walk down a long room to address a young man, knowing that more than one pair of eyes would be turned towards her; and here she was standing without any visible aim or errand. "Won’t you come to our table, Vincent?" she asked hesitatingly. And then he noticed her embarrassment; and he felt he would be a craven hound not to come to her rescue, whatever the quarrel between them. "Oh, yes, certainly, if I may," but with no sort of gladness in his consent; and then he bade the waiter fetch the things along. She led the way. When he reached the table he shook hands with George Bethune, who appeared more surprised than pleased. Then Maisrie made a faint little kind of introduction as between the young men: Vincent—who had not caught the other’s name—bowed stiffly, and took the seat that had been brought for him. And then, seeing that it was on Maisrie that all the responsibility of this new arrangement had fallen, he forced himself to talk—making apologies for disturbing them, explaining how it was he came to be in Brighton, and begging Maisrie not to take any trouble about him: it was only too kind of her to allow him to join them. And yet it was very awkward, despite Maisrie’s assiduous little attentions, and her timid efforts to propitiate everybody. The fresh-complexioned young gentleman stared at the intruder; grew sullen when he observed Maisrie’s small kindnesses; and eventually turned to resume his conversation with Mr. Bethune, which had been interrupted. Vincent, who had been ready, on the smallest provocation, to break forth in flame and fury, became contemptuous; he would take no heed of this person; nay, he would make use of the opportunity to show to anyone who might choose to listen on what terms he was with Maisrie. "Where are you living, Maisrie?" said he, and yet still with a certain stiffness. She gave him the number in German Place. "Then we are neighbours, or something near it," he said. "I am at the Bristol—the Bristol Hotel." "Oh, really," she made answer. "I thought you had an aunt living in Brighton—the lady who came to see us at Henley."