"Why, if you are leaving in course of the next few days, I fear not," said the hypocrite. "He was not pleased, as you may imagine. But business is sometimes urgent, you know. Had he not gone, I must have done so myself: and he thought a night journey to Liverpool rather much to expect from a man of my age who had a son to send. Eh?" "Of course," murmured Virginia. "But it is a pity! Spoils our last evening!" "Oh, now, now, Miss Virginia! That is a little rough upon poor Bent, who has rallied up at a moment's notice to make your party complete. Confess now--in the lamentable circumstances, could I have done better? Eh? I think not. There is dinner announced. Come, take my arm. Mims must divide herself between the two young men." CHAPTER III VIRGINIA AT HOME "_Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, Seeking a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end, That self might be annulled--her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to Love!_" --Wordsworth. The six-forty-six express from London swept majestically into the station at Wayhurst. It was one of the events of the day in the sleepy place--the arrival of the 6.46; the evening papers came down on that train. Many residents were on the platform--the retired Army men to fetch their _Pall Mall Gazette_, others to meet friends. There was nobody to meet Virginia Mynors, but evidently she did not expect it. She stood among the throng, in her simplest linen suit, and searched with her eyes for the outside porter. It was some time before she could secure his services--he was busy with more important clients--and when at last he had shouldered her trunk and hat-box, it was with the remark that he couldn't "promise to be out at the villas, not much afore nine o'clock, at any rate." Virginia intimated that nine o'clock would suit, and turned, travelling-bag and umbrella-case in hand, to brave her hot walk. It was a sultry evening. The country town was bathed in dust; the roads, though it was almost seven o'clock, seemed shadeless. After a while the girl stopped to withdraw her sunshade from the case, and proceeded on her way, holding it up with one hand, the weight of her hand-luggage in the other. She looked pale and dispirited. Somehow, the end of her glorious London visit had tailed off in dissatisfaction. The Rosenbergs had been kind--most kind--to the last. They had insisted upon keeping her one day longer, that Mr. Bent might take them to Hendon to see some flying. But longer than that she would not stay, for Pansy, her little lame sister, had written her a letter containing the following disquieting news: _Mama is in an awfull stayt. I think she has had bad news. She says we are rewend._