I can hardly say. Small vexations and annoyances seem to have beset him since he came back, and no man, under those circumstances, is ever presented at his best. He looks, as I think, thinner than he was when he left England. His wearisome cough and his comfortless restlessness have certainly increased. His manner⁠—at least his manner towards me⁠—is much more abrupt than it used to be. He greeted me, on the evening of his return, with little or nothing of the ceremony and civility of former times⁠—no polite speeches of welcome⁠—no appearance of extraordinary gratification at seeing me⁠—nothing but a short shake of the hand, and a sharp “How-d’ye-do, Miss Halcombe⁠—glad to see you again.” He seemed to accept me as one of the necessary fixtures of Blackwater Park, to be satisfied at finding me established in my proper place, and then to pass me over altogether.