He ought to have gone away seven years ago. It was Gwenda's fault that he hadn't gone. He felt a dull anger against her as against a woman who had wrecked his chance.
He had a chance of going now if he cared to take it.
He had had a letter that morning from Dr. Harker asking if he had meant what he had said a year ago, and if he'd care to exchange his Rathdale practice for his old practice in Leeds. Harker's wife was threatened with lung trouble, and they would have to live in the country somewhere, and Harker himself wouldn't be sorry for the exchange. His present practice was worth twice what it had been ten years ago and it was growing. There were all sorts of interesting things to be done in Leeds by a man of Rowcliffe's keenness and energy.
"Do you know, Steven, you're getting quite stout?"
"I do know," he said almost with bitterness.
"I don't mean horridly stout, dear, just nicely and comfortably stout."
"I'm too comfortable," he said. "I don't do enough work to keep me fit."
"Is that what's bothering you?"
He frowned. It was Harker's letter that was bothering him. He said so.
For one instant Mary looked impatient.