The Master of the Ceremonies saw him too, as he bowed to one, smiled upon a second, and took snuff with a third; and several times, as he watched the fisherman wading out there, he followed his movements attentively, and appeared to be gazing without his mask of artificiality. The man's calm, dreamy ways seemed to have an attraction, as if he were wishing that he could change places with him, and lead so simple and peaceful a life. And as he watched him, very far out now, Dick raised his net, emptied it, shook it with his back to the people, and then began to wade in quite another direction, going back no more to the ground off the pier. The Master of the Ceremonies did not look himself that day, and twice over he found himself on the edge of the pier gazing out to sea, where everything seemed so peaceful and still. There was a buzz of voices going on about him, but he heard nothing, till all at once a voice, quite familiar to him, exclaimed sharply: "Well, what is it?" "Message from Mr Barclay, sir." "Well?" "I took your note, sir, and he'll be glad to see you to-morrow morning at twelve." "That will do. Now take the other." Stuart Denville could not restrain himself as he heard those voices just behind, and it was as if some power had turned him sharply round to see Major Rockley in conversation with one of the private dragoons of his regiment. The man had delivered his message to his master, and then turned stiffly to go, coming face to face with Denville, whose whole manner changed. He turned deadly pale, of an unwholesome pallor, and then the blood seemed to flush to his face and head. His eyes flashed and his lips parted as if to speak, but the dragoon saluted, turned upon his heel, and strode away. "Anything the matter, Denville?" said the Major, who had seen something of the encounter. "Matter, matter," said the old man hoarsely, and he now began to tremble violently. "No--no,--a little faint. You'll pardon me,--a chair,--a--" The old man would have fallen, but the Major caught his arm and helped him to a seat, where a crowd of fashionables surrounded him, and did all they possibly could to prevent his recovery from his fit by keeping away every breath of air, and thrusting at him bottles of salts, vinaigrettes, and scents of every fashionable kind. "What's the matter with the old fellow?" said the Major, as he twirled his moustache. "Could he have known about the note? Impossible; and if he had known, why should he turn faint? Bah! Absurd! The heat. He's little better than a shadow, after all." Volume One, Chapter XXII. A SURREPTITIOUS VISITOR. "Major Rockley's servant to see you, miss." Claire started from her seat and looked at Footman Isaac with a troubled expression that was full of shame and dread. She dropped her eyes on the instant as she thought of her position.