The episode of Wilkins’s was buried, but it was imperfectly buried. The Five Towns definitely knew that he had stayed at Wilklns’s for a bet, and that Brindley had discharged the bet. And rumours of his valet, his electric brougham, his theatrical supper-parties, had mysteriously hung in the streets of the Five Towns like a strange vapour. Wisps of the strange vapour had conceivably entered the precincts of his home, but nobody ever referred to them; nobody ever sniffed apprehensively, nor asked anybody else whether there was not a smell of fire. The discreetness of the silence was disconcerting. Happily his relations with that angel, his wife, were excellent. She had carried angelicism so far as not to insist on the destruction of Carlo; and she had actually applauded, while sticking to her white apron, the sudden and startling extravagances of his toilette. On the whole, though little short of thirty-five thousand pounds would ultimately be involved,--not to speak of liability of nearly three thousand a year for sixty-four years for ground-rent,--Edward Henry was not entirely gloomy as to his prospects. He was indubitably thinner in girth; novel problems and anxieties, and the constant annoyance of being in complete technical ignorance of his job, had removed some flesh. (And not a bad thing either!) But, on the other hand, his chin exhibited one proof that life was worth living, and that he had discovered new faith in life and a new conviction of youthfulness. He had shaved off his beard. "Well, sir!" a voice greeted him full of hope and cheer, immediately his feet touched the platform.