“No, no! — At least, I can hardly say yet. Dare say she has been doing rather too much. Not accustomed to town life, you know. I am — I shall be taking her into the country in a day or so. Needs rest and a change of air.”
“I am excessively sorry to hear it! You’ll be wishing me at the devil, no doubt: I’ll be off at once!”
Sherry, usually the most hospitable of hosts, made no effort to detain him, but accompanied him to the street door. As George descended the steps, he asked suddenly: “George, where’s my cousin Ferdy?”
“Lord, how should I know?” replied George, drawing on his gloves. “Said he was going to dine at Long’s last night, so he may be nursing his head in bed. You know what he is!”
“He did dine at Long’s? You’re sure of that?”
“He was certainly engaged to do so,” George said, with perfect truth.
“Oh! Then — No, he wouldn’t — ” Sherry broke off, flushing. “Fact of the matter is I’ve the devil of a head myself this morning, George!”
Lord Wrotham replied sympathetically, and left him. Sherry went back into his library, and sat down to think very hard indeed.
The result of this concentrated thought was to plunge him into quite the most horrid week of his life. His friends, daily expecting to see him at one of his usual haunts, looked for him in vain. His lordship was out of town, travelling first into Buckinghamshire, to Fakenham Manor, and thence all the way north to Lancashire, to Croxteth Hall, the Earl of Sefton’s country seat. He drew blank at both these establishments, but both his aunt and Lady Sefton inexorably dragged his story out of him, and then favoured him with their separate, but curiously similar, readings of his character. Lady Fakenham was a good deal more outspoken than Lady Sefton, told him that he had come by his deserts, and sped him on his way to Lancashire with the depressing reminder that he had only his abominable selfishness to thank for whatever disaster might befall his wife, adrift in a harsh world. When he had gone (and it had cost him all his resolution to take leave of his aunt with common civility), her ladyship said thoughtfully to her husband that this affair might well prove to be the making of Anthony.
“Yes, but what the deuce can have become of that poor little creature?” said Lord Fakenham, not particularly interested in Sherry’s possible redemption.