‘My dear Henry, it would have been very extraordinary, surely, if she had not mentioned you, considering that we went over to Hampstead to see you, and were much disappointed to find you had already retired to bed. You want shaking up, old fellow, that’s what it is. You’ve been worrying yourself over this big business too much. Your late partner’s death has thrown too much responsibility upon your shoulders. How I wish I were not such a fool, and could help you a little. But now that I have returned, you must come out more, Henry. It is quite time you came back to the world. It is--let me see!--quite nine months or more, surely, since that poor girl met with her death--’ ‘Stop! stop!’ cried Henry suddenly. ‘What poor girl? What are you talking about?’ Arthur looked bewildered. ‘Why! Miss Crampton, or rather Mrs Walcheren, of course. It was her death, wasn’t it, that led to the other. You must have felt it terribly. Such a sudden shock, and when you regarded her as almost one of the family.’ ‘Oh! no, I didn’t,’ replied Hindes, in an incoherent manner. ‘Why should I have felt it? She was nothing to me. I didn’t care about her. Why, to hear you talk in that extravagant way,’ he continued, turning his suspicious eyes upon his brother, ‘one would think--one would almost imagine that I had had something to do with it all.’ ‘Something to do with it,’ repeated Arthur, in a distressed tone of voice. ‘Oh, Henry! how can you say such a thing! But you felt it deeply, I am sure. Anyone could see that from your altered appearance. But, my dear brother, there is such a thing, you know, as giving way too much to our feelings. You have lost two of your dearest friends, but you have your wife and children left. You must think of them, Henry, and also a little of me, of whom you are the last surviving relative. For all our sakes, dear old chap, try and rouse yourself from this morbid condition. A little amusement and gaiety will do you good. Hannah should have urged you to go out again before this. But, now that I have come home, I mean to persuade you to it, for my own sake as well as yours. Will you?’ ‘Of course I will,’ replied Henry, sitting upright in his chair, and trying to look as if there were nothing the matter with him; ‘we will go out together, Arthur, and have some larks as we used to do. I’m as fit as a fiddle. It’s only Hannah who will have it I’m ill. Women are such coddles. But, now you are come, it will be all right. Let’s make a night of it. Where shall we go? Tivoli first, and a little supper at Gatti’s afterwards. Will that suit you, Artie? By Jove! the very sight of you has done me good.’