“Oh, that confounded Infant!” exclaimed Dr. Dick.  “I have hated it from the first!  But really, Mrs. West “—­he looked puzzled—­“all this was no doubt enthusiasm misplaced.  But then Ronnie always is a perfect infant himself, where new toys are concerned.  You can hardly realise how much he has looked forward to showing you that ’cello.  His behaviour also proved a decided tendency to self-absorption; but there the artistic temperament comes in, which always creates a world of its own in which it dwells content, often at the expense of duties and obligations connected with outer surroundings.  We all know that this is Ronnie’s principal failing.  But—­excuse me for saying so—­it hardly deserved quite so severe an indictment from you.”

Helen wrung her hands.

Suddenly Dr. Dick took them both, firmly in his.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” he said.

Then Helen told him.

She never could remember afterwards exactly how she told him, and no one but Helen ever knew what Dr. Dick said and did.  But, months later—­when in her presence aspersions were being cast on Dick for his indomitable ambition, his ruthless annihilation of all who stood in his way, his utter lack of religious principle and orthodox belief—­Helen, her sweet face shadowed by momentary sadness, her eyes full of pathetic remembrance, spoke up for Ronnie’s chum.  “He may be a bad old thing in many ways,” she said; “I admit that the language he uses is calculated to make his great-aunt Louisa, of sacred memory, turn in her grave!  But—­he is a tower of strength in one’s hour of need.”

* * * * *

“No,” said Dick, after a while, gazing straight before him into the fire, his chin in his hands; “I can’t believe Ronnie knew it.  He was just in the condition to become frantically excited by such news.  He would have been desperately anxious about you; wild that you should have gone through it alone, and altogether absorbed in the idea of coming home and seeing his child.  The Infant of Prague would have had its shining nose put completely out of joint.  I don’t believe Ronnie ever had your letter.  Write to the Poste Restante at Leipzig, and you will receive it back.”

“Impossible,” said Helen.  “He opened and read it that evening in Aubrey’s flat.  He told Aubrey the news, and Aubrey mentioned it in his letter to me.”

Dick looked grave.

“Well then,” he said, “old Ronnie is in an even worse case than I feared.  I think we should go at once and look him up.  I told my friend’s chauffeur to wait; so, if further advice is needed to-night, we can send the car straight back to town with a message.  Where is Ronnie?”

“He took his ’cello, and went off to the studio.  I heard him shut the door.”

“Show me the way,” said Dr. Dick.

With his hand on the handle of the sitting-room door, he paused.

“I suppose you—­er—­feel quite able to forgive poor old Ronnie, now?” he asked.