"I could send him a cheque. He need not be at any expense," said Michael in a low voice. His exhausted mind, slower to move than ever, had not left the subject of Doctor Filippi. His brother's last remark had not penetrated to it. Wentworth became scarlet. He made an impatient movement. Then part of the sense of his brother's last words tardily reached Michael's blurred faculties. "An old friend of mine," he said, vaguely flurried. "What old friend?" "Fay," said Wentworth, biting his lip. "Have you forgotten Fay _entirely_? How she tried to save you, how she grieved for you? Her great goodness to you? And what she is to _me_!" "No," said Michael. "No. I don't forget. Her goodness to me. How she tried to save me. Just so. Just so. I don't forget." "Won't you see her? She and Magdalen are driving over here this morning. You need not see Magdalen unless you like." "I should like. She is going to be married, too, isn't she? I feel as if I had heard someone say so." "Yes, to Lossiemouth. You remember him as Everard Constable, a touchy, ill-conditioned, cantankerous brute if ever there was one, who does not care a straw for anyone but himself. I can't think what she sees in him. But an Earl's an Earl. I always forget that. I have lived so much apart from the world and its sordid motives and love of wealth and rank that it is always a shock and a surprise when I come in contact with its way of looking at things. I never liked Magdalen. I always considered her superficial. But I never thought her mercenary--till now. But Fay----" "I will see her, too," said Michael. "Yes, of course. I somehow thought of Fay as--as--but my mind gets so confused--as at a great distance, quite removed all this time. Hundreds and hundreds of miles away in England. Left Italy for good." "My dear boy, she is living at Priesthope, four miles off. I've told you so over and over again. I go and see her every day." "Yes, at Priesthope, of course. Four miles. I know the way. You can go by Wind Farm, or Pilgrim Road. You did tell me. More cheerful as time passes on." Wentworth looked with perplexity at Michael's thin profile. The doctor had most solemnly assured him that his mind was only muffled and deadened by his physical weakness. But it sometimes seemed to Wentworth as if his brother's brain were softening. He felt a sudden return of the blind despairing rage which was wont to grip him after his visits to Michael in prison. This inert, cold-blooded shadow; was this all that was left of his brother? A great tenderness welled up in his heart, the old, old protective tenderness of many years. He put his strong brown hand on his brother's emaciated, once beautiful hand, now disfigured by coarse labour, and scarred and discoloured at the wrist. "Get well, Michael," he said huskily. Michael's hand trembled a little, seemed to shrink involuntarily. Then a servant appeared suddenly, coming towards them across the grass, and Wentworth took back his hand instantly.