It was luncheon-time when they arrived at the old red-brick mansion, where they found their cousin Gerard, as usual, in the garden, looking ill indeed, but a little less thin, a little less lifeless, than he had been a week before.
The sight of his wife, brief as it had been, the receipt of a letter from her, vague as were its contents, had undoubtedly done wonders towards restoring the unlucky man to that interest in life which had for the time been crushed out of him.
His cheeks were still hollow and pale; his eyes were still unnaturally large and filled with a mournful wistfulness. But in spite of his anxiety as to his wife’s whereabouts, his irritation on account of his uncle’s replies to questions about her, he had now begun to find his energy and spirits slowly returning, and it is possible that the very uncertainty and suspense he was in about Audrey rather helped than hindered his recovery, by stimulating his curiosity and increasing his desire to be able to go in search of her, as he meant to do as soon as he was able.
Edgar was the first to speak. Half shyly, looking askance at his cousin as he came up with his hands in his pockets, he asked how he was getting on. Gerard at once detected something unusual in his tone, and looked at him curiously as he answered.
“Got rid of the nurse, at all events,” said Edgar.
“Oh, yes. I’m all right now.”
“You only want a winter at Nice or Cannes to set you up again,” suggested Geoffrey, who was close behind his brother.
Gerard was surprised at this solicitude, which was most unusual. Both his cousins, while not daring to be openly insolent to him in their father’s presence, had taken no pains to hide their disgust at having to put up with the residence under the paternal roof of a man who had been in penal servitude.
“No,” he answered, “I don’t want to go abroad. I prefer to stay in England. I’m tired of doing nothing.”
“Well, what can you do? You couldn’t go back to the bank, you know!” said Geoffrey, with cruel bluntness.