It was a damp and depressing day on which Lord Walderhurst arrived in
London. As his carriage turned into Berkeley Square he sat in the corner
of it rather huddled in his travelling-wraps and looking pale and thin.
He was wishing that London had chosen to show a more exhilarating
countenance to him, but he himself was conscious of being possessed by
something more nearly approaching a mood of eagerness than he remembered
experiencing at any period of his previous existence. He had found the
voyage home long, and had been restless. He wanted to see his wife. How
agreeable it would be to meet, when he looked across the dinner-table,
the smile in her happy eyes. She would grow pink with pleasure, like a
girl, when he confessed that he had missed her. He was curious to see in
her th
