His tragic face bores me to death.
Really, men are too tiresome when there is the slightest thing the matter with them." And Arabella had faithfully carried out her instructions.
In common honesty she could not inform her employer that John Derringham was perfectly well or amusing! Poor Miss Clinker's happy summer with her mother was being a good deal dimmed by her unassuaged sympathy and commiseration.
"Of course, he is grieving for that sweet and distinguished girl, Miss Halcyone La Sarthe," she told herself--and with the old maid's hungering for romance, which even the highest education cannot quite crush from the female breast, she longed to know what had parted them.
Mr.Carlyon had gone abroad, she had ascertained that, and La Sarthe Chase was still closed.
The night before John Derringham left for London, he hobbled down to dinner on crutches.

He was not to try and use his foot for some weeks still, but the cut on his head was mended now.

It was a glorious July evening, the roses were not over on the terrace, and every aspect of nature was gorgeously beautiful and peaceful.
They did not delay long over their repast, and there was still twilight when Mrs.and Miss Clinker left their invalid alone with his wine.

A letter was in his pocket, arrived by the evening post from Mrs.
Cricklander, which he had not yet opened.

It would contain her reflections upon his changed conditions of fortune, of which he had, when he learned of its full magnitude, duly informed her.
He was alternately raging with misery now, or perfectly numb and, as he sat there a shattered wreck of his former _insouciant_ self, gaunt and haggard and pitifully thin, some of his friends would hardly have recognized him.
He felt it was his duty to read the missive presently, but he told himself the lights were too dim, and taking a cigar he hobbled out upon the terrace.