He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace; but unfortunately he was not
equally sick of her who held it in possession. And he was, too, better
alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John Eustace,
though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace was out somewhere
among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this as he followed her,
but he was obliged to follow her. Half-way down to the seashore, much
below the knob on which she had attempted to sit with her Shelley, but yet
not below the need of assistance, he found her seated in a little ravine.
"I knew you would come," she said. Of course she had known that he would
come. She did not rise, or even give him her hand, but there was a spot
close beside her on which it was to be presumed that he would seat
himself. She had a volume of Byron in her hand--the "Corsair," "Lara," and
the "Giaour"--a kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her
than "Queen Mab." "You go to-morrow?"
"Yes; I go to-morrow."
"And Lubin has gone?" Arthur Herriot was Lubin.
"Lubin has gone. Though why Lubin I cannot guess. The normal Lubin to me
is a stupid fellow always in love.
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