After this neat little compromise with his conscience, which perhaps was rusty for want of work and therefore not equal to the occasion, he as it were shook hands with himself, and set to work again, ignoring the question of unhappy young princesses with neglectful husbands and doubtful counts in dangerous proximity.
It was the old life again. Patients at home in the morning, hospital work later, later still consultations or sudden calls. Then evenings spent quietly with Ralph, talking over his late tour with the geologist and helping him to arrange his specimens.
The boy was never so happy as when his father was sharing his life, thus. But he loved him unselfishly, and the seed of doubt whether that father was as well or as happy as he should be was sown, and had already fructified.
“Father,” he said suddenly, one evening, “why have you given up going out?”
“My dear boy, I cannot give up what I never began,” said Dr. Paull, startled so that his pale face flushed.
“You went to the opera and to parties,” persisted Ralph. “And you looked so jolly then. You don’t now. You are quite different.”
“Don’t let us talk nonsense,” said Hugh, annoyed.
Could it be true that he looked brighter after mixing with a crowd of silly people, who lived to waste time in amusing themselves?
The very next morning he was down to breakfast somewhat earlier, to keep an appointment with a patient, when Ralph came in, all eagerness. A letter was in his hand.
“From the princess, father,” he said. “A footman brought it, and is waiting for an answer.”