She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched, as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew her hand away, and the movement was not noticed. "What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?" "Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking. Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?" "No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he, Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream, and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered, Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome." "Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a lesson." "Do, please! I like lessons!" Nigel laughed, but he did not seem inclined to carry out his threat by active measures. "How has my father been lately?" he asked next. "Not well to-day?" "Very far from it," Mrs. Browning murmured. "Nothing definitely wrong?" "Yes; weakness and depression; and the old pain about the heart, worse than it used to be. He will not have advice; says it is only neuralgia, and nothing can be done. But he ought to consult a London physician. One never can be sure. I have tried in vain to persuade him." "Perhaps he will listen to me. And you, too—you are not just as you ought to be," Nigel said affectionately. "I! Oh, that is nothing. I never expect to feel strong." Then Anice's voice was heard again. "But, Nigel, what can have made you so late? Why didn't you come straight from the station?" "Anice is a self-appointed Inquisitress-General," interposed Fulvia. "Did you meet anybody by the way?" "I nearly ran down Mr. Carden-Cox." "He wouldn't forgive anybody else; but you are a privileged person—you may do what you like. Was he much delighted?" asked Fulvia, while Anice could be heard complaining—"I don't see why you should call me that. I don't see why Nigel shouldn't tell us." "If he was, he showed it in characteristic style," said Nigel. "Where did you see him?" "In George Street." "George Street! But what could have taken you there?" exclaimed Anice. "Didn't you come up the steps?"