“The doctors insist on flannel—­the natural wool—­all of them.”

“The greatest mistake in the world.  I used to wear it because I thought the doctors ought to know, and I was always getting colds.  Now I never let a bit of wool touch my skin—­haven’t for years and years—­and never know what it means to have a cold.”

“That is contrary to all the traditions,” he remarked seriously, addressing her handsome back; for she was still supposed to be writing her letter.  “I can’t believe that it is due to not wearing flannel, Debbie.  It’s your splendid vitality—­your being so different from other people—­”

“Nothing of the sort!  You try it.  Not just now, of course, with winter beginning, but when warm weather comes again—­”

And so on.  The hostess broke in upon their tete-A-tete while they were still engrossed in this interesting topic.  She was drawn into it, and made a disciple of by Deb, who attributed all her own blooming health and practical youthfulness to linen underclothing, combined with plenty of fresh air.  And after all, since letter-writing was hopeless, she did go out to lunch with the guns.  Claud remained alone and disconsolate by the library fire.  She was due to leave the house next day, and left, although conscious of a strange hankering to stay; and during the interval gave Mr Dalzell no further opportunity to talk about his bronchitis—­and other things.  He was not aware that she was to go so soon until she was gone; and then he found himself with livelier feelings than had stirred his languid being for many a day.  He was not only annoyed and disappointed at being deprived of the refreshment of her stimulating society; he was incensed with her mode of departure, which seemed to imply an intention to evade him.

“Does she still think that I am after her money?” he asked himself, with scorn of her mean suspiciousness.  “Just because I was magnanimous enough to ignore the past!”

He went down south, to play a little at Monte Carlo and cruise a little in the Mediterranean—­to kill time through the detestable winter, which made itself felt wherever he was; and she went to London to see about Francie’s gown, and up north to bracing Scotland, and down to Wellwood for Christmas, and back to the racket of London in the spring; and neither of them had spent a lonelier time in all their lives.  Quite a fresh and peculiar sense of homelessness and uncomforted old age took possession of them both.

All through the kaleidoscopic transformation-scenes of the “season”, through which she moved magnificently, old-maidhood notwithstanding, she was unconsciously seeking him.  It was her impression, from all she had heard of his tastes and ways, that he could not keep away from that common rendezvous of his class and kind.  She did not find him, but all the same he was there.  He returned from his winter haunts sooner than his wont, while still the April winds were full of menace for him, exposed himself to those winds seeking her, caught a chill, neglected it—­a most unusual thing—­and fell into an illness that confined him to his bed for many weeks.