An hour or two later he found himself once more in the Park in the shadow of the trees. It was here he first saw Dorothy, and he cherished a vague hope that she might pass that way again. He called himself a fool for throwing oil on the flame of a hopeless passion, but in his heart he pitied himself more than he blamed. Moreover, he needed something to draw away his thoughts from himself. If he brooded too long on his disappointments, he might lose heart and hope. It was much pleasanter to think of Dorothy than of the treatment he had received at the hands of the Brick, Tile, and Clay Company, so he threw himself, with a sigh, on an empty seat and watched the people passing to and fro. Most people walked slowly, for the day was hot. The ladies carried sunshades, and were clad in the flimsiest materials. The roar of the streets was less insistent than when he sat there before. But London still seemed to him an inexpressibly lonely place. He was never quite sure how long he sat there. An hour, perhaps. Perhaps two hours. Time was not a matter that concerned him just then. His brain kept alternating between the disappointments of the past and hopes of the future. He came to himself with a start. The rustle of a dress, accompanied by a faint perfume as of spring violets, caused him to raise his head with a sudden movement. "I thought I could not be mistaken!" The words fell upon his ears with a curious sense of remoteness such as one experiences sometimes in dreams. The next moment he was on his feet, his face aglow, his eyes sparkling with intense excitement. "Did I not see you two days ago? Pardon me for speaking, but really, to see one from home is like a draught of water to a thirsty traveller." And Dorothy's voice ended in a little ripple of timid laughter. "It is a long time since you were at St. Goram?" he said, in a questioning tone. "I scarcely remember how long," she answered. "It seems ages and ages. Won't you tell me all the news?" "I shall be delighted," he said; and he walked away by her side. "Father writes to me every week or two," she went on, "but I can never get any news out of him. I suppose it is that nothing happens in St. Goram." "In the main we move in the old ruts," he answered slowly. "Besides, your father will not be interested in the common people, as they are called." "He is getting very tired of the place. He wants to get his household into the very smallest compass, so that he can spend more time in London and abroad." "Do you like living in London?" "In the winter, very much; but in the summer I pine for St. Goram. I want the breeze of the downs and the shade of the plantation." "But you will be running down before the summer is over?" "I am afraid not. To begin with, I cannot get away very well, and then I think my father intends practically to shut up the house at the end of this month." "And your brother?"