"I can say nothing definite. He is not as he should be. Good-bye." "But, hallo—I say!" And Mr. Carden-Cox sprang up. "Am I to quote you?" Dr. Duncan looked down from his superior height, smiling again. "No," he said, and vanished. "Knew he meant that," growled Mr. Carden-Cox, dropping back into the easy-chair. "Extraordinary! Browning ill! Browning! I should have said he was as jolly and well-to-do a man as any alive. But Duncan doesn't speak without reason. Well, I must obey orders, I suppose. What next? Hey? Yes—come in! Nigel this time?" The two shook hands quietly, and fell into a talk. Nobody would have guessed, looking on, how long they had been apart, nor how much the reunion meant to the elder man. Nigel's brightness of manner was a little forced. He had been again to the Rectory, and both Malcolm and Ethel were out. Only Mrs. Elvey had received him; and Mrs. Elvey was not a reviving person. CHAPTER VI DRAGGING HOURS "Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day." —SHAKESPEARE. "WHAT has become of Nigel?" It seemed to Fulvia that the world never would stop tormenting her with this question. First, Daisy popped in to put it; then Mr. Browning, with heavy step and dejected mien, did the same; afterward, Anice appeared, loitered about, and discussed its bearings; lastly, Mrs. Browning glided through the doorway, and desired information. When Fulvia counted the catechising at an end, Daisy began over again. Fulvia was always the person asked; for people had a way of appealing to her rather than to anybody else. She was practical and clear-headed, apt to remember little details which others were apt to forget, and as a rule she did not mind trouble. But this afternoon she did mind. While Anice and Daisy were on the move, unable to settle down in the excitement of Nigel's return, Fulvia never stirred from the easy-chair where after lunch she had taken refuge. Restlessness had had its swing with her through the night-hours, and had been finished off by a long walk in the morning. Now the weather had grown dismal and drizzling, and she sat persistently over her crewel-work. Usually Fulvia was a rapid and beautiful worker, yet advance to-day seemed slow. While anybody was present, her needle went in and out like clockwork. "How you can!" Daisy exclaimed, "and Nigel only just come back?" Fulvia smiled, and worked on. But when alone, she dropped the work on her knee, holding it in readiness for another start so soon as the door-handle should turn, and laid her head against the chair-back for indulgence in a dream. Violent weeping always left Fulvia in a state of reactionary inertia. She had not cried for—how many years was it? She could recall the last time, and the long stupid exhaustion following. That had been a case of childish naughtiness; but Mrs. Browning had petted and cared for her. Nobody thought of petting as needed now.