“I never saw her half a dozen times in my whole life. But she’s been generous to me, poor old lady!”
“I should think so. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a nice sum for a young fellow to find in his pocket all on a sudden. And now—you want to go away and get well, and come back presently and begin where you left off—a year ago. Is that it?”
“That is it. I shall never get well here, and I mean to get well if I can,”—he paused, and hesitated. “That was the only letter in my box this morning.”
Braith did not answer.
“It is nearly two months now,” continued Rex, in a low voice.
“What are your plans?” interrupted Braith, brusquely.
Rex flushed.
“I’m going first”—he answered rather drily, “to Arcachon. You see by the letter my aunt died in Florence. Of course I’ve got to go and measure out a lot of Italian red tape before I can get the money. It seems to me the sooner I can get into the pine air and the sea breezes at Arcachon, the better chance I have of being fit to push on to Florence, via the Riviera, before the summer heat.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”