When Hilliard and his friend again shook hands it was the autumn of another year.

Not even by chance had they encountered in the interval and no written message had passed between them.

Their meeting was at a house newly acquired by the younger of the Birching brothers, who, being about to marry, summoned his bachelor familiars to smoke their pipes in the suburban abode while yet his rule there was undisputed.
With Narramore he had of late resumed the friendship interrupted by Miss Birching's displeasure, for that somewhat imperious young lady, now the wife of an elderly ironmaster, moved in other circles; and Hilliard's professional value, which was beginning to be recognised by the Birchings otherwise than in the way of compliment, had overcome the restraints at first imposed by his dubious social standing.
They met genially, without a hint of estrangement.
"Your wife well ?" Hilliard took an opportunity of asking apart.
"Thanks, she's getting all right again.

At Llandudno just now.

Glad to see that you're looking so uncommonly fit." Hilliard had undoubtedly improved in personal appearance.