‘Oh, it isn’t impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don’t say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a few years perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantime it will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if we are both alive, assuredly we go.’
‘The year after next.’ Biffen smiled dubiously.
‘I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.’
‘You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to hope for.’
Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:
‘Here’s a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.’
The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ran thus:
‘Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with Mrs Carter, at her mother’s, at Brighton.’
The full address was given.
‘You hadn’t heard of her going there?’ said Biffen, when he had read the lines.