Ida was very kind and gentle to her husband at this time, seeing that he was really in need of her tenderness. She devoted herself to his amusement, walked with him, rode with him, drove with him; but although he was grateful, he was not happy. A terrible depression of mind, broken by flashes of hilarity, had taken possession of him. The London physician had told him frankly that his nerves were shattered, but that all would be well with him if he left off all stimulants, ate chops and steaks, and lived in the open air; but as yet he had been unable to cope with the most diminutive chop, or to exist for three hours without stimulants. Even those rides and drives with Ida seemed a weariness to him, and he would have escaped them if he could. This afternoon he paced the rose-garden listlessly by Ida's side, smoking a cigarette--that cigarette which was rarely absent from his lips. 'Are you sure your London doctor does not object to your smoking so much?' Ida asked presently, noting the languid uncertainty of the fingers which held the cigarette. 'I am not sure about anything. I told him I could not live without tobacco, and he said I might smoke two or three cigarettes in the course of the day--' 'Oh, Brian, and you smoke--' 'Two or three dozen! Not quite so bad as that, eh? But no doubt I do go considerably outside the medico's mark. I could no more exist by line and rule in that way than I could fly. No, if I am to die of tobacco and late hours, I am doomed.' 'But there is no such thing as being doomed; every man is his own master--he can mould his life as he likes.' 'Can he? That depends upon the man. I am not going into the mystery of fate and free will. There is the question of temperament--hereditary instinct. If I cannot have intellectual society--new ideas--variety--I must die. I could not lead the life you live here--not life, but stagnation.' 'I have the books I love, this dear park, and all the lovely country round us--horses--dogs--and some very pleasant neighbours: and I try to do a little good in my generation.' 'All very well; but you are as much out of the world as if you were in the centre of Africa. I could not exist under such conditions. Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. This to me would be as bad as Cathay. But now I suppose you are going to be perfectly happy, now that your brother is coming home.' 'Yes. I am always happy, when I have him--he is more and more companionable every day of his life.' Vernon was expected that afternoon. He was coming home for a summer holiday, just when summer was at her loveliest. He was not bound by public school rules, or obliged to wait for the stereotyped watering-place season. The Jardines were to bring him over this afternoon, and were to stay at Wimperfield for a couple of days. Ida glanced towards the avenue every now and then, expecting to catch a glimpse of the approaching carriage between the leafy elms.