It was different with the next packet he opened (also recognizing the
writing), for this was a paper-weight--an oblong slab of crystal set in
silver, with a photograph of the sender showing through, and the
inscription at the foot, "To Lionel Moore, from his sincere friend,
K.B." And he had never thought of getting anything for Miss Burgoyne!
Well, it was too late now; he would have to atone for his neglect of her
when he returned to town. Meanwhile he recollected that just about now
she would be getting down to Victoria station _en route_ to Brighton;
and, indeed, had it not been for the duty he owed the old people, he
would have been well content to be going with her. The last time he had
been in a Pullman car on the way to Brighton it was with other
friends--or acquaintances; he knew his place now, and was resigned. So
he continued opening these parcels and envelopes carelessly and somewhat
ungratefully, merely glancing at the various messages, until it was time
to bethink him of setting forth.
But first of all, when the cab had been summoned and his portmanteau put
on the top, he told the man to drive to a certain number in Sloane
Street; he thought he would call for a minute on Mrs.
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