She found herself brushing past the latest trim parlour-maid, and out once more in the keen, sweet, young dampness.  She strode briskly down the deserted street.  Her fine bronze eyebrows were drawn down to where they met.  “Good Lord!  Damn!”—­Cecil swore very prettily and modernly—­“What rotten taste!  Not frankness, whatever it might seem outwardly; not frankness, but devious excuses!  Some more of Adrian’s hated past-generation stuff!  And yet—­no!  The woman was sincere—­perfectly!  She had meant it—­that about her husband.  And she was lovely—­and she was fine, too!  It was impossible to deny it.  But—­a childless woman!  About that drunken tailor’s model of a husband!  And then—­Uncle Henry! ...”  Cecil threw back her head; her eyes gleamed in the wet radiance of a corner lamp; she laughed without making a sound, and entirely without amusement.

But it is not true that good health is static, no matter how carefully looked after.  And, despite the present revolt against the Greek spirit, Time persists in being bigotedly Greek.  The tragedy—­provided one lives long enough—­is always played out to its logical conclusion.  For every hour you have spent, no matter how quietly or beautifully or wisely, Nemesis takes toll in the end.  You peter out; the engine dulls; the shining coin wears thin.  If it’s only that it is all right; you are fortunate if you don’t become greasy, too, or blurred, or scarred.  And Mr. McCain had not spent all his hours wisely or beautifully, or even quietly, underneath the surface.  He suddenly developed what he called “acute indigestion.”

“Odd!” he complained, “and exceedingly tiresome!  I’ve been able to eat like an ostrich all my life.”  Adrian smiled covertly at the simile, but his uncle was unaware that it was because in Adrian’s mind the simile applied to his uncle’s conscience, not his stomach.

It was an odd disease, that “acute indigestion.”  It manifested itself by an abrupt tragic stare in Mr. McCain’s eyes, a whiteness of cheek, a clutching at the left side of the breast; it resulted also in his beginning to walk very slowly indeed.  One day Adrian met Carron, his uncle’s physician, as he was leaving a club after luncheon.  Carron stopped him.  “Look here, Adrian,” he said, “is that new man of your uncle’s—­that valet, or whatever he is—­a good man?”

Adrian smiled.  “I didn’t hire him,” he answered, “and I couldn’t discharge him if I wanted—­in fact, any suggestion of that kind on my part, would lead to his employment for life.  Why?”

“Because,” said Carron, “he impresses me as being rather young and flighty, and some day your uncle is going to die suddenly.  He may last five years; he may snuff out to-morrow.  It’s his heart.”  His lips twisted pityingly.  “He prefers to call it by some other name,” he added, “and he would never send for me again if he knew I had told you, but you ought to know.  He’s a game old cock, isn’t he?”