When they went down to dinner that day it became known that Mr. Anderson did not intend to dine with them. "He\'s got a headache," said Sir Magnus. "He says he\'s got a headache. I never knew such a thing in my life before." It was quite clear that Sir Magnus did not think that his lieutenant ought to have such a headache as would prevent his coming to dinner, and that he did not quite believe in the headache. There was a dinner ready, a very good dinner, which it was his business to provide. He always did provide it, and took a great deal of trouble to see that it was good. "There isn\'t a table so well kept in all Brussels," he used to boast. But when he had done his share he expected that Anderson and Arbuthnot should do theirs, especially Anderson. There had been sometimes a few words,—not quite a quarrel but nearly so,—on the subject of dining out. Sir Magnus only dined out with royalty, cabinet ministers, and other diplomats. Even then he rarely got a good dinner—what he called a good dinner. He often took Anderson with him. He was the doyen among the diplomats in Brussels, and a little indulgence was shown to him. Therefore he thought that Anderson should be as true to him as was he to Anderson. It was not for Anderson\'s sake, indeed, who felt the bondage to be irksome;—and Sir Magnus knew that his subordinate sometimes groaned in spirit. But a good dinner is a good dinner,—especially the best dinner in Brussels,—and Sir Magnus felt that something ought to be given in return. He had not that perfect faith in mankind which is the surest evidence of a simple mind. Ideas crowded upon him. Had Anderson a snug little dinner-party, just two or three friends, in his own room? Sir Magnus would not have been very angry,—he was rarely very angry,—but he should like to show his cleverness by finding it out. Anderson had been quite well when he was out riding, and he did not remember him ever before to have had a headache. "Is he very bad, Arbuthnot?"

"I haven\'t seen him, sir, since he was riding."

"Who has seen him?"

"He was in the garden with me," said Florence, boldly.

"I suppose that did not give him a headache."

"Not that I perceived."

"It is very singular that he should have a headache just when dinner is ready," continued Sir Magnus.

"You had better leave the young man alone," said Lady Mountjoy.

And one who knew the ways of living at the British Embassy would be sure that after this Sir Magnus would not leave the young man alone. His nature was not simple. It seemed to him again that there might be a little dinner-party, and that Lady Mountjoy knew all about it. "Richard," he said to the butler, "go into Mr. Anderson\'s room and see if he is very bad." Richard came back, and whispered to the great man that Anderson was not in his room. "This is very remarkable. A bad headache, and not in his room! Where is he? I insist on knowing where Mr. Anderson is!"

"You had better leave him alone," said Lady Mountjoy.

"Leave a man alone because he\'s ill! He might die."

"Shall I go and see?" said Arbuthnot.

"I wish you would, and bring him in here, if he\'s well enough to show. I don\'t approve of a young man going without his dinner. There\'s nothing so bad."

"He\'ll be sure to get something, Sir Magnus," said Lady Mountjoy. But Sir Magnus insisted that Mr. Arbuthnot should go and look after his friend.

It was now November, and at eight o\'clock was quite dark, but the weather was fine, and something of the mildness of autumn remained. Arbuthnot was not long in discovering that Mr. Anderson was again walking in the garden. He had left Florence there and had gone to the house, but had found himself to be utterly desolate and miserable. She had exacted from him a promise which was not compatible with any kind of happiness to which he could now look forward. In the first place, all Brussels knew that he had been in love with Florence Mountjoy. He thought that all Brussels knew it. And they knew that he had been in earnest in this love. He did believe that all Brussels had given him credit for so much. And now they would know that he had suddenly ceased to make love. It might be that this should be attributed to gallantry on his part,—that it should be considered that the lady had been deserted. But he was conscious that he was not so good a hypocrite as not to show that he was broken-hearted. He was quite sure that it would be seen that he had got the worst of it. But when he asked himself questions as to his own condition he told himself that there was suffering in store for him more heavy to bear than these. There could be no ponies, with Florence driving them, and a boy in his own livery behind, seen upon the boulevards. That vision was gone, and forever. And then came upon him an idea that the absence of the girl from other portions of his life might touch him more nearly. He did feel something like actual love. And the more she had told him of her devotion to Harry Annesley, the more strongly he had felt the value of that devotion. Why should this man have it and not he? He had not been disinherited. He had not been knocked about in a street quarrel. He had not been driven to tell a lie as to his having not seen a man when he had, in truth, knocked him down. He had quite agreed with Florence that Harry was justified in the lie; but there was nothing in it to make the girl love him the better for it.

And then, looking forward, he could perceive the possibility of an event which, if it should occur, would cover him with confusion and disgrace. If, after all, Florence were to take, not Harry Annesley, but somebody else? How foolish, how credulous, how vain would he have been then to have made the promise! Girls did such things every day. He had promised, and he thought that he must keep his promise; but she would be bound by no promise! As he thought of it, he reflected that he might even yet exact such a promise from her.

But when the dinner-time came he really was sick with love,—or sick with disappointment. He felt that he could not eat his dinner under the battery of raillery which was always coming from Sir Magnus, and therefore he had told the servants that as the evening progressed he would have something to eat in his own room. And then he went out to wander in the dusk beneath the trees in the garden. Here he was encountered by Mr. Arbuthnot, with his dress boots and white cravat. "What the mischief are you doing here, old fellow?"

"I\'m not very well. I have an awfully bilious headache."

"Sir Magnus is kicking up a deuce of a row because you\'re not there."

"Sir Magnus be blowed! How am I to be there if I\'ve got a bilious headache? I\'m not dressed. I could not have dressed myself for a five-pound note."

"Couldn\'t you, now? Shall I go back and tell him that? But you must have something to eat. I don\'t know what\'s up, but Sir Magnus is in a taking."

"He\'s always in a taking. I sometimes think he\'s the biggest fool out."

"And there\'s the place kept vacant next to Miss Mountjoy. Grascour wanted to sit there, but her ladyship wouldn\'t let him. And I sat next Miss Abbott because I didn\'t want to be in your way."

"Tell Grascour to go and sit there, or you may do so. It\'s all nothing to me." This he said in the bitterness of his heart, by no means intending to tell his secret, but unable to keep it within his own bosom.

"What\'s the matter, Anderson?" asked the other piteously.

"I am clean broken-hearted. I don\'t mind telling you. I know you\'re a good fellow, and I\'ll tell you everything. It\'s all over."

"All over—with Miss Mountjoy?" Then Anderson began to tell the whole story; but before he had got half through, or a quarter through, another message came from Sir Magnus. "Sir Magnus is becoming very angry indeed," whispered the butler. "He says that Mr. Arbuthnot is to go back."

"I\'d better go, or I shall catch it."

"What\'s up with him, Richard?" asked Anderson.

"Well, if you ask me, Mr. Anderson, I think he\'s—a-suspecting of something."

"What does he suspect?"

"I think he\'s a-thinking that perhaps you are having a jolly time of it." Richard had known his master many years, and could almost read his inmost thoughts. "I don\'t say as it so, but that\'s what I am thinking."

"You tell him I ain\'t. You tell him I\'ve a bad bilious headache, and that the air in the garden does it good. You tell him that I mean to have something to eat up-stairs when my head is better; and do you mind and let me have it, and a bottle of claret."

With this the butler went back, and so ............