About this time, old Aitken, who had forgiven the successful couple, died, and left his only child a large and well-invested fortune, and the Harlings were the richest and most influential people in a bustling, prosperous place that now called itself a city. After considerable hesitation they decided on a trip to the Old Country, where Leonard endeavoured to trace his brother—of whom he had lost sight for years.
Humphrey remained in Australia, and wrote from there at long intervals, and then all letters had ceased. The family lawyer whom Leonard interviewed informed him that his brother had married in Melbourne, and not very long afterwards he died. What had happened to the widow or children—if any—he could not say.
Subsequently Leonard took his wife to visit what had been the home of his ancestors; and the result of this excursion (as is sometimes the case) was disappointing. Twenty years had effaced many old friends, memories, and landmarks; the ancient family was forgotten.
Now, after a lapse of another ten years, the Harlings were once more in London, and had spent three months in this hotel, pretending to one another that they were having the time of their lives. They did a round of theatres, operas, pictures, dinners at restaurants, and stiff dinners with business people who desired to be civil to the Canadian millionaire. They themselves entertained various Canadian acquaintances and fellow-passengers, but they had no relatives or intimates, and all the time felt themselves to be strangers in a strange land.
Presently Leonard Harling turned away from the window, picked up a paper and sat down. His wife watched him surreptitiously; he was reading the advertisements—anything to pass the time! He did not belong to a club, he did not play bridge, he did not enjoy idleness. When his companion heaved an involuntary sigh he looked up and said:
“Say, Lizzie, I believe we made a bad shot coming over this time. We seem a bit out of the picture—and everything is so confoundedly slow.”
“Yes, one misses the whirl at home—the Committee Meetings, and the big house and gardens, and neighbours—and the dogs.”
“We have no special deep-down-rooted interests—that’s what ails us.”
“Well anyhow, you have your grand collection, Len, your silver,” and Mrs. Harling waved a knitting-needle at a row of priceless tankards, that shone on a cabinet between the windows.