For the past two years he had been living in Australia.  He had undertaken the voyage at the suggestion of some new doctor whose advice he had sought, and he had been so ill during the six weeks’ voyage that, so far, he had never been able to summon sufficient pluck to start home again.

Jimmy had roared with laughter when he heard; he could so well imagine his brother’s disgust and fear.  As a matter of fact, it suited Jimmy very well that the head of the family should be so far removed from him.  He hated supervision; he liked to feel that he had got a free hand; that he need not go in fear of running up against Horatio Ferdinand at every street corner.

He read his brother’s closely written pages now with a long-suffering air.  Jimmy hated writing letters, and he hated receiving them; most things bored him in these days; he had been drifting for so long, and under Cynthia Farrow’s tuition he would very likely have finally drifted altogether into a slack, nothing-to-do man about town, very little good to himself or anyone else.

Horatio Ferdinand wrote:—­

Dear James,—­ (He hated abbreviations; he would never allow people to call him “Horace”; his writing was cramped and formal like himself.) I have heard a rather disquieting rumour about you from a mutual friend, and shall be glad if you will kindly write to me upon receipt of this letter and inform me if there is any truth in the allegation that you are constantly seen in the company of a certain actress.  I hardly think this can be so, as you well know my dislike of the stage and anything appertaining thereto.  My health is greatly improved by my visit here, and all being well I shall probably risk making the return voyage after Christmas.  Upon second consideration, I shall be glad if you will cable your reply to me, as the mail takes six weeks, as you know.—­Your affectionate brother.

Jimmy crushed the letter in his hand.

“Damned old idiot!” he said under his breath.  He got up, and began striding about the room angrily.  The tassels of his dressing-gown swung wildly at each agitated step; the big carpet slippers he wore flapped ungracefully.

“Confounded old fathead.”

Jimmy was flushed, and his eyes sparkled.  He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end.  After a few strides he felt better.  He went back to the armchair and took up his brother’s letter once more.

After a moment he laughed, rather a sore laugh, as if something in the stilted wording of the letter hurt him.

What would he not have given now to be able to cable back: 

“Quite right; she is my wife.”

But as it was——­

“Let him think what he likes.  I don’t care a hang,” was the thought in Jimmy Challoner’s mind.

He sat there with his chin drooping on his breast, lost in unhappy thought.

It was not yet two days since Cynthia had sent him away; it seemed an eternity.