“Oh?” She made the word twice its length, and filled it with disinterest.

“Yes. Jack will have none of it. He asks me to be his steward and to use Wyncham as I will. He is very generous.”

“Yes, oh yes. And you will, Richard?”

He ignored the question.

“He⁠—Warburton⁠—says he is not much changed.”

“Oh?” Again the long-drawn monosyllable, accompanied by a tiny yawn.

“He says he does not think⁠—Jack⁠—bears me ill-will⁠—” He paused, as if expecting her to speak, but she was absorbed in arranging two flowers⁠—culled from a bowl at her side⁠—at her breast, and took no notice. Carstares turned his head away wearily.

“If it were not for you, my dear, I would tell the truth. I believe I shall go crazed an I do not.”