"Yes, not a bad little hole, Worthing. Plenty of sun and sea air and so on. Think it might suit Joey and the kids for a month or two, later on. Pity Mrs. Gaunt knocked up, wasn't it, though?"
"Yes, I was very much vexed to hear it," Gaunt was able by this to reply with his natural brevity.
"Enough to make her, though, wasn't it? Pretty bad generalship on Rosenberg's part. You take my tip and run down, Gaunt. They tell me she's deuced seedy." There was meaning in the tone.
"She makes light of it to me," said Gaunt, choosing his line quickly. "Tell me what you know of it."
"Oh, well, of course, you heard that she got wet through, driving in an open cart in the pouring rain late at night, trying to reach Petworth in time for the last train, or something. Of course, Rosenberg's car is a beauty; you couldn't expect it to break down like that ... still, to send off his chauffeur to meet me at Chichester, leaving himself and Mrs. Gaunt stranded in a place where there was no accommodation, no telegraph—gad, if you had seen the hovel where they spent the night, Gaunt, I think you'd have given him a bit of the rough side of your tongue."
"The same idea has occurred to me," said Gaunt drily, "but I understood that the whole thing could not be avoided; it was quite an accident. Still, to drive her in the wet, without even an umbrella—no wonder my wife fell ill!" There was a certain relief in his heart, among all the turmoil of jealousy and vexation. The circumstances were, in themselves, quite enough to account for illness, without his own shortcomings being in any way responsible.
"You see, she had nothing for the night," explained Ferris, "so I suppose she couldn't take off her wet things. I had a line from Rosenberg this morning about the directors' meeting, and he mentioned that the doctor won't let her leave her room."
"So I understood. I think I had better take your advice and run down. Thank you, Ferris. I am glad to have seen you. My mother-in-law has the art of making the most of things, and I was not sure just how unwell my wife is."
After the exchange of a few commonplaces, they parted. Ferris watched Gaunt limp into the inn yard, and turned away with an involuntary, "Poor devil!" He stood irresolute upon the pavement for a minute or two, then strolled into the post office, and wrote a telegram to Rosenberg:
Gaunt coming down. Be on your guard.