as really best, but how dismal! He seemed to see
all his miserable loneliness and disappointment in its dark, sombre
colour. No, that would never do! He must be bright, amusing,
cheerful--anything but dull and dismal. So he put on the green again,
and went down to the drawing-room. Randal was a young man of
twenty-four--dark, tall, and slight, with a rather weary look in the
eyes, as of one who had discovered the hollow mockery of the world and
wondered at the pleasures of simple people. He was perfectly dressed,
and had arrived, after much thought and a University education, at that
excellent result when everything is right, as it were, by accident--as
though no thought had been taken at all. As soon as a man appears to
have laboured for effect, then he is badly dressed. Randal was
good-looking. He had very dark eyes and thin, rather curling lips, and
hair brushed straight back from his forehead.

The room was in twilight. It was Clare's morning-room, chosen because
it was cosy and favoured intimacy. She was fond of Randal and liked to
mother him; she also respected his opinions. The windows looked over
the sea and the blinds were not drawn. The twilight, like a floating
veil, hovered over sea and land; the last faint colours of the sunset,
gold and rose and grey, trembled over the town.

Harry was introduced. Randal smiled, but his hand was limp; Harry felt
a little ashamed of his own hearty grasp and wished that he had been
less effusive. Randal's suit was dark blue and he wore a black tie;
Harry became suddenly conscious of his daring green and, taking his
tea, went and sat in the window and watched the town. The first white
colours of the young moon, slipping from the rosy-grey cloud, touched
faintly the towers of the ruined church on the moor; he fancied that he
could just see the four stones shining darkly grey against the horizon,
but it was difficult to tell in that mysterious half-light. Robin was
sitting under the lamp by the door. The light caught his hair, but his
face was in shadow. Harry watched him eagerly, hungrily. Oh! how he
loved him, his son!

Randal was discussing some people with whom he had been staying--a
little languidly and without any very active interest. "Rather a nice
girl, though," he said. "Only such a dreadful mother. Young
Page-Rellison would have had a shot, I do believe, if it hadn't been
for the mother--wore a wig and talked Cockney, and fairly grabbed the