his chance to fall in love so seriously and hopefully that all the
better features of his character were drawn out, emphasized, and, as
it seemed, for good and all established in predominance.

Not long after his first meeting with Warburton, he one day
received, through the publishers of a book he had illustrated, a
letter signed "Ralph Pomfret," the writer of which asked whether
"Norbert Franks" was the son of an old friend of whom he had lost
sight for many years. By way of answer, Franks called upon his
correspondent, who lived in a pleasant little house at Ashtead, in
Surrey; he found a man of something less than sixty, with a touch of
eccentricity in his thoughts and ways, by whom he was hospitably
received, and invited to return whenever it pleased him. It was not
very long before Franks asked permission to make the Pomfrets
acquainted with his friend Warburton, a step which proved entirely
justifiable. Together or separately, the two young men were often to
be seen at Ashtead, whither they were attracted not only by the
kindly and amusing talk of Ralph Pomfret, but at least as much by
the grace and sweetness and sympathetic intelligence of the mistress
of the house, for whom both entertained respect and admiration.

One Sunday afternoon, Warburton, tempted as usual by the thought of
tea and talk in that delightful little garden, went out to Ashtead,
and, as he pushed open the gate, was confused and vexed at the sight
of strangers; there, before the house, stood a middle-aged gentleman
and a young girl, chatting with Mrs. Pomfret. He would have turned
away and taken himself off in disappointment, but that the clank of
the gate had attracted attention, and he had no choice but to move
forward. The strangers proved to be Mrs. Pomfret's brother and his
daughter; they had been spending half a year in the south of France,