When at length he was satisfied that not even the most fantastical effort of the modiste was capable of concealing the head of the Rain-Girl, Beresford was conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, almost of despair. What if she had gone away? She might be ill, or possibly her aunt was ill and they had been forced to go abroad. What a fool he had been to build so confidently on that one hint, the name of the hotel at which she was to stay.
Suddenly his eyes fell on the untasted glass of burgundy before him and, remembering Tallis' advice, he drank it at a draught.
Of course she was lunching somewhere with friends. He would in all probability see her at dinner. People could not be expected to take all their meals in their hotels, as if they were staying en pension at Margate or Southend. Really he was becoming a little suburban, not to say provincial, in his ideas.
As the meal progressed the cloud of depression lightened, and by the time that he had finished the second glass of burgundy, he had explained to his entire satisfaction the absence of the Rain-Girl from lunch.
After the meal, he took a short walk around Bond Street, Regent Street and Piccadilly. He then spent half an hour in the Park, placing himself behind a tree lest he should be recognised by some of his acquaintance, who would carry the news of his return to his family. What a splendid thing it must be not to have a family. Then he walked slowly up
