His cogitations that afternoon were about Nigel. As he sat, nursing one leg over the other, his hands clasped round the upper knee, his small figure bent forward, his features wrapt in gravity, he thought only of Nigel. Much of the love which Mr. Carden-Cox had once lavished upon Nigel's mother was lavished now upon Nigel; but Nigel did not guess this, or suppose himself to be more than "rather a favourite." As few had divined the strength of Arthur Carden-Cox's devotion in past days, so few divined it now. He was not at all in the habit of wearing his heart upon his sleeve, for anybody to peek at. There were plenty of daws in Newton Bury, ready to perform that office, if he would have allowed them. It was a disappointment that Nigel had not yet come. All day Mr. Carden-Cox had stayed in for the chance—or, as he viewed it, for the certainty—of a call. "What could the boy be about?" he asked repeatedly, as the hours went by; and two ruts deepened in his forehead. Somebody tapped, and the door opened, Mr. Carden-Cox looking up sharply, secure of Nigel; but "Dr. Duncan" was announced instead. Dr. James Duncan, first cousin to Mrs. Browning, and leading medical man in Newton Bury, knew himself to be at the moment unwelcome; and he bore the knowledge cheerfully. He understood Mr. Carden-Cox too well, besides being too large-hearted a man, to take offence lightly. That sort of thing—"that sort of nonsense," he would have called it—he left to smaller natures. Though younger than Clemence Duncan, James Duncan had once upon a time been in the ranks of her admirers. Like Arthur Carden-Cox, he had found Albert Browning preferred to himself. Unlike Arthur Carden-Cox, he had wisely consoled himself in later years with somebody else. Mr. Carden-Cox, disgusted with Nigel's non-appearance, would not rise, and Dr. Duncan did not sit down. He stood upon the rug, hat in hand, opposite the small man in the easy-chair; himself of good medium height, and well made, though disposed to thinness. He had a frank English face, not critically handsome, but very like that of Nigel. Placed side by side, the two might have passed for father and son. "Well?" growled Mr. Carden-Cox. "Have I interrupted anything of importance?" asked Dr. Duncan, in a voice which matched his face—frank and well-modulated. "No, no. It doesn't matter. I'm only on the lookout for that young fellow. By-the-bye, have you seen him yet?" and Mr. Carden-Cox grew lively. "Don't know who I mean! oh? Haven't you heard he is come? Why, your former patient, of course—Nigel. You won't have much to say to him now in that capacity. He's transmogrified. Looks ten times the man I ever expected." "I'm glad to hear it—very glad. I had hopes." "Yes; you were right after all, I didn't half believe in the scheme before he went, but you were right. And you've not seem him?" "No. Clemente told me he was expected soon—which day I had forgotten. I have been rather overwhelmed this week."