appeared once more in England, looking
in reality very little altered, save that his dark complexion seemed a
little darker from travel, and he was slightly, very slightly, bald on
the top of the head.

It was remarked, however, that his old pursuits, which were purely those
of pleasure or dissipation, had not, to all appearance, the same hold
on him as before. "He never goes down to Tattersall's," "I don't think
I have seen him once at the opera," "He has given up play altogether,"
were the rumors one heard on all sides; and so it was that the young
generation, who had only heard of but never seen him, were sorely
disappointed in meeting the somewhat quiet, reserved-looking, haughty
man, whose wild feats and eccentricities had so often amused them,
but who now gave no evidence of being other than a cold, well-bred
gentleman.

It was when hastily passing through London, on his return from India,
that Mark Lyle had met him, and Maitland had given him a half-careless
promise to come and see him. "I want to go across to Ireland," said he,
"and whenever town gets hot, I'll run over." Mark would have heard the
same words from a royal duke with less pride, for he had been brought up
in his Sandhurst days with great traditions of Maitland; and the favor
the great man had extended to him in India, riding his horses, and once
sharing his bungalow, had so redounded to his credit in the regiment
that even a tyrannical major had grown bland and gentle to him.

Mark was, however, far from confident that he could rely on his promise.
It seemed too bright a prospect to be possible. Maitland, who had never
been in Ireland,--whom one could, as Mark thought, no more fancy in
Ireland than he could imagine a London fine lady passing her mornings in
a poorhouse, or inspecting the coarse labors of a sewing-school,--_he_
coming over to see him! What a triumph, were it only to be true! and
now the post told him it was true, and that Maitland would arrive at the
Abbey on Saturday. Now, when Mark had turned away so hastily and left
his sisters, he began to regret that he had announced the approaching
arrival of his friend with such a flourish of trumpets. "I ought to have
said nothing whatever about him. I ought simply to have announced him
as a man very well off, and much asked out, and have left the rest to
fortune. All I have done by my ill-judged praise has been to awaken
prejudice against him, and make them eager to detect flaws, if they