He drove his car, now rejuvenated, with the preoccupied gaze of one who seeks to pierce a dark and troubled future. From the garage he called up the Long Island estate where his hacks and polo ponies were housed for the winter. He gave some instructions which caused the man in charge to blink with astonishment.
“Selling everything, Mr. Carshaw!” he said. “D’ye really mean it?”
“Does my voice sound as if I were joking, Bates?”
“No-no, sir; I can’t say it does. But—”
“Start on the catalogue now, this evening. I’ll look after you. Mr. Van Hofen wants a good man. Stir yourself, and that place is yours.”
He found his mother at home. She glanced at him as he entered her boudoir. She saw, with her ready tact, that questions as to his state of worry would be useless.
“Will you be dining at home, Rex?” she asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“I—have almost promised to dine en famille with the Towers.”