Wentworth was beginning to fear that his brother had an ungrateful, callous nature. Was Michael so self-absorbed—egotism revolted Wentworth—that he would never ask to see Wentworth's future wife, the woman who had shown such unceasing, such tender interest in Michael himself.
"I hoped there was someone else, someone very dear to me, and a devoted friend of yours, whom you might like to see again."
Wentworth spoke with deliberation.
"I could send him a cheque. He need not be at any expense," said Michael in a low voice. His exhausted mind, slower to move than ever, had not left the subject of Doctor Filippi. His brother's last remark had not penetrated to it.
Wentworth became scarlet. He made an impatient movement. Then part of the sense of his brother's last words tardily reached Michael's blurred faculties.
"An old friend of mine," he said, vaguely flurried. "What old friend?"
"Fay," said Wentworth, biting his lip. "Have you forgotten Fay entirely? How she tried to save you, how she grieved for you? Her great goodness to you? And what she is to me!"
"No," said Michael. "No. I don't forget. Her goodness to me. How she tried to save me. Just so. Just so. I don't forget."
"Won't you see her? She and Magdalen are driving over here this morning. You need not see Magdalen unless you like."
"I should like. She is going to be married, too, isn't she? I feel as if I had heard someone say so."