The sight of his wife, brief as it had been, the receipt of a letter from her, vague as were its contents, had undoubtedly done wonders towards restoring the unlucky man to that interest in life which had for the time been crushed out of him. His cheeks were still hollow and pale; his eyes were still unnaturally large and filled with a mournful wistfulness. But in spite of his anxiety as to his wife’s whereabouts, his irritation on account of his uncle’s replies to questions about her, he had now begun to find his energy and spirits slowly returning, and it is possible that the very uncertainty and suspense he was in about Audrey rather helped than hindered his recovery, by stimulating his curiosity and increasing his desire to be able to go in search of her, as he meant to do as soon as he was able. Edgar was the first to speak. Half shyly, looking askance at his cousin as he came up with his hands in his pockets, he asked how he was getting on. Gerard at once detected something unusual in his tone, and looked at him curiously as he answered. “Got rid of the nurse, at all events,” said Edgar. “Oh, yes. I’m all right now.” “You only want a winter at Nice or Cannes to set you up again,” suggested Geoffrey, who was close behind his brother. Gerard was surprised at this solicitude, which was most unusual. Both his cousins, while not daring to be openly insolent to him in their father’s presence, had taken no pains to hide their disgust at having to put up with the residence under the paternal roof of a man who had been in penal servitude. “No,” he answered, “I don’t want to go abroad. I prefer to stay in England. I’m tired of doing nothing.” “Well, what can you do? You couldn’t go back to the bank, you know!” said Geoffrey, with cruel bluntness. Gerard’s white face flushed, and he did not answer. The rather less boorish Edgar said quickly:-- “You couldn’t work yet awhile, if you wanted to, could you? You will have to get strong first.” “Well, but I should get all right again faster if I had something to occupy myself with. I don’t care for the life you fellows lead, loafing and getting into mischief,” retorted Gerard. “Well, you got into worse mischief than we,” replied Geoffrey. Gerard shook his head. “I think you both know that isn’t true,” he said quietly. “My uncle believes me, I’m almost sure.” “But,” urged Geoffrey, not without reason, “if you didn’t do what they sent you to prison for, your story points a very bad moral. For, while you, who worked hard and did no harm got penal servitude as a reward, we, who’ve never done anything but enjoy ourselves and who never mean to do anything else, have managed to do it without interference from anybody!” Gerard smiled grimly. “Well, I don’t envy your existence,” said he. “On the contrary, my sympathy is with my wife, who has evidently deeply offended my uncle by doing what I admire her for doing, and setting up in business instead of starving on a wretchedly inadequate income.”