Dyke unwillingly consented, and they left the house. The older man brightened up considerably amidst the bustle of the streets. His color returned, he talked with some degree of cheerfulness, and even laughed as he said:
“I never understood you were a doctor, Claude, in addition to your other varied acquirements. For the first time since—since November last, I feel hungry.”
“Why don’t you take my advice, and go away for some shooting? It is not too late, even now, to go after a hare.”
“I will think of it. I wonder who we shall meet at the club.”
“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose they ask about your wife?”
The baronet’s momentary gaiety vanished. He stopped short, and clutched Bruce’s arm. “Don’t you see,” he almost moaned, “that this is the reason I have remained indoors for so long? What shall I say?”
“You must make the best of it. Say, off-handedly, you don’t know where she is—either with relations or in Italy. Anything will do, and it will create a false impression.”
“I am sick of false impressions. I cannot do it.”
“You must.”