"Where have you put the telegram? Can I read it?" "It's lying on the secretary," said George, who was at the moment engaged in tying up his shoes. Felician went into the next room, took the telegram in his hand and read it. "It is much more urgent," he observed, "than I thought." "It seems to me, Felician, that it still strikes you as strange that I am shortly going to have a real profession." Felician stood at his brother's side again and stroked his hair. "It is perhaps rather providential that the telegram should have come yesterday." "Providential! How so?" "I mean that after such a sad business the prospect of practical occupation ought to do you twice as much good.... But I am afraid I must leave you now. I've still got quite a lot to do. Farewell visits among other things." "When are you going then, Felician?" "A week to-day. I say, George, I suppose you are probably coming back from the country to-day?" "Certainly, if everything is all right out there." "Perhaps we might see each other again in the evening." "I should like to very much, Felician." "Well then, if it suits you I'll be at home at seven. We might go and have supper together--but alone, not at the club." "Yes, with pleasure." "And you might do me a favour," began Felician again after a short silence. "Remember me out there very very kindly ... tell her that I sympathise most sincerely." "Thank you, Felician. I will tell her." "Really, George, I can't tell you how much it touched me," continued Felician with warmth. "I only hope that she'll soon get over it.... And you, too." George nodded. "Do you know," he said gently, "what it was going to be called?" Felician looked at his brother's eyes very seriously, then he pressed his hand. "Next time," he said with a kindly smile. He shook hands with his brother again and went. George looked after him, torn by varying emotions. Yet he's not altogether sorry, he thought, that it should have turned out like that.