They had been big boy and little boy at school. The vivacity of the
Celt amused the good-natured south Saxon, and when Lord Mount Rorke
called to see his nephew, he found him talking with Brookes. Once
Willy had been invited to spend part of his holidays at Mount Rorke.
Afterwards they visited each other's rooms, and so their friendship
had been decided, and, in spite of--or, perhaps, on account of--a very
marked difference in their characters and temperaments, gathered
strength as it matured. Another link between the men was that Escott
had accompanied Willy to the theatre when he went to see the actress
whom he had loved so madly. Frank had heard her sing the song which
Willy whistled when his thoughts went wandering. Willy confided in no
one--great sorrows cannot be and never are confided; but Frank had
seen her, and he played her songs on the piano, and that was enough
for Willy.

The young men had not seen each other for two years. Frank had shown
some taste for painting, and his uncle, whose heir he was, had sent
him, if not to study, at least to think about art in Italy. From Italy
he had gone to Greece and Russia, he had returned home through
Germany, he had visited Holland and France.

"Is the London train come in?" Willy asked when he arrived in
Brighton.

"Yes, sir, just come in, about five minutes," said the man as he
opened the door. Willy waited until the train had stopped dead, he got
out carefully, and, looking through the confusion of luggage and
bookstall trade, he saw Escott questioning a porter and hailing a
carriage. "By Jove! I shall miss him," cried Willy, and he hastened
his steps and broke into a sharp trot. "Frank! Frank!" he cried.