Lancelot called on the Monday following their return, and Arthur welcomed him, if anything, a little too effusively. Guinevere crossed the room to shake hands, and the afternoon light enabled them to take stock of each other properly. They were a pair of ghosts, and each was shocked almost beyond the bounds of decency at the change in the other. He followed her to the Japanese afternoon tea-table, and took a cup of tea from her hands. The tremor of the cup and saucer told their own tale. Arthur watched them from the fireplace with the blandest of smiles upon his face. It pleased him to see the tears gather in his wife's eyes, as she recognised the change in her old lover. From that day forward, Lancelot was made free of the house, and Arthur insisted that he should be asked to every function, however great or small.
Whatever his own thoughts might have been, Lancelot could not fail to see the pleasure his society gave Guinevere, so he settled it in his own mind that the invitations emanated from her. His health was too feeble to admit of his riding or playing tennis; but driving along the mountain-roads, strolling in the gardens, or idling in the music-room, he was her constant companion. Naturally, folk talked, though Arthur assured them that he was only too glad to see his wife happy with her old friends. But it was not true, the long brandy pawnee glasses in his study said so most emphatically.
This sort of thing went on all through the summer months, until the roses began to bloom again in Guinevere's cheeks. Her husband noticed the change, but did not comment on it; he was going to have his day of reckoning by-and-by.
One day Lancelot called upon a certain famous specialist (I'll tell you a pretty piece of scandal about his wife some day), and after a brief wait was shown into the consulting-room. He sniffed the professional smell of the place for five minutes, and while listening to the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, made up his mind on a certain subject.
After the specialist had completed a searching examination, Lancelot said,—"As you see, I am growing thinner every day; it nearly kills me to walk fifty yards, and my appetite has forsaken me completely. It's not the first time you've told men their fate: tell me mine. What is the length of my tether?"
"My dear sir, my very dear sir!" that worthy man replied, as he put his paraphernalia back into their respective cases, "we must not despair! While there is life there is hope; with proper care you may yet——"
"But I shall take no care. How long have I to live?"
"As I have said, with scrupulous attention to detail and proper advice, say twelve months, possibly more."
"And without that care?"
"I cannot tell you—perhaps five minutes, perhaps five months; it depends upon yourself."