longing to see her, poor dear old dad, working himself into an invalid's
nervous dread lest they might never meet again, as she herself had done
a few months earlier, and the sight of his child would be his best
medicine.

They left the train and took their places in the boat. It was a
cloudless summer afternoon, and the white cliffs stood out in striking
contrast to the blue sky and sea. What a change from the big grey city
which even now was beginning to grow close and dusty, what a glorious
open prospect for one who had been shut up for months in the confines of
a narrow street, and yet Rutland Road had been far more beautiful to one
voyager at least, for at that moment, exactly at that moment, as timed
by the little watch at her wrist, Jack O'Shaughnessy would have turned
the corner of the main road to saunter towards his own home.

Jack always sauntered, with the air of a gentleman at large who had
never known the necessity of hurry. Sylvia had watched him many times
from the shelter of her window curtains, and knew exactly how he would
carry his head, and twirl his stick, and glance rapidly across the road
as he unlatched the gate. Pixie would open the door and breathlessly
unfold the news with which she had by this time been made acquainted,
and how would Jack look then? Would the smile fade away, would he feel
as if all zest and interest had departed from the evening entertainment,
or would he make the best of things in happy O'Shaughnessy fashion and
console himself in Mollie's smiles?

The breeze grew fresher and more chill, and the stars began to peep; the
travellers had reached the shores of France; and far-away in London
Esmeralda's guests were beginning to arrive, the carriages were jostling
one another in the narrow street. Then came Paris, and a space for rest
and refreshment before starting on the next stage of the journey.

Sylvia had hoped that a telegram might be waiting for her at this point,
but none was forthcoming, and its absence was a bitter disappointment
despite the old adage that no news is good news. She sat in the big
deserted buffet, drinking bouillon and eating poulet and salad; and
catching sight of her own pallid reflection in one of the mirrors,
smiled feebly at the contrast between the present and the "might have
been"! This white-faced, weary-looking girl was surely not the Sylvia
Trevor whose day-dreams had woven such golden things about this very
hour.

The lady cou