Part 39 (1/2)

”No one at _all_?”

Michael made a mental effort which did not escape Wentworth.

”I should like very much to see--presently--if it could be done----”

”Yes,” said Wentworth eagerly. ”Of _course_ it can be done, my dear boy.

You would like to see?”

”Doctor Filippi,” said Michael, looking deprecatingly at Wentworth. ”He was so good to me. And I am accustomed to seeing him. I miss him all the time. I wonder whether you would let him come and stay here for his holiday. He generally takes it in June. And--let me see--it's May now, isn't it?”

Wentworth's heart swelled with jealousy and disappointment. The jealousy was of the doctor, the disappointment was about Fay. The larger of the two emotions was jealousy.

”You have sent Doctor Filippi a very handsome present,” he said coldly.

”I chose it for you, a silver salver. I went up to London on purpose at your wish a week ago.”

”Y-yes.”

”And I don't think he would care to come here. No doubt he has his own friends. You must remember a man like that is poor. It would be putting him to expense.”

Michael looked down at the sleeping puppy. He did not answer.

Wentworth was beginning to fear that his brother had an ungrateful, callous nature. Was Michael so self-absorbed--egotism revolted Wentworth--that he would _never_ ask to see Wentworth's future wife, the woman who had shown such unceasing, such tender interest in Michael himself.

”I hoped there was someone else, someone very dear to me, and a devoted friend of yours, whom you might like to see again.”

Wentworth spoke with deliberation.

”I could send him a cheque. He need not be at any expense,” said Michael in a low voice. His exhausted mind, slower to move than ever, had not left the subject of Doctor Filippi. His brother's last remark had not penetrated to it.

Wentworth became scarlet. He made an impatient movement. Then part of the sense of his brother's last words tardily reached Michael's blurred faculties.

”An old friend of mine,” he said, vaguely flurried. ”What old friend?”

”Fay,” said Wentworth, biting his lip. ”Have you forgotten Fay _entirely_? How she tried to save you, how she grieved for you? Her great goodness to you? And what she is to _me_!”

”No,” said Michael. ”No. I don't forget. Her goodness to me. How she tried to save me. Just so. Just so. I don't forget.”

”Won't you see her? She and Magdalen are driving over here this morning.

You need not see Magdalen unless you like.”

”I should like. She is going to be married, too, isn't she? I feel as if I had heard someone say so.”

”Yes, to Lossiemouth. You remember him as Everard Constable, a touchy, ill-conditioned, cantankerous brute if ever there was one, who does not care a straw for anyone but himself. I can't think what she sees in him.

But an Earl's an Earl. I always forget that. I have lived so much apart from the world and its sordid motives and love of wealth and rank that it is always a shock and a surprise when I come in contact with its way of looking at things. I never liked Magdalen. I always considered her superficial. But I never thought her mercenary--till now. But Fay----”

”I will see her, too,” said Michael. ”Yes, of course. I somehow thought of Fay as--as--but my mind gets so confused--as at a great distance, quite removed all this time. Hundreds and hundreds of miles away in England. Left Italy for good.”