It was not until June that Deb heard of it.  He was truly so much of an old fogey now in the society of which he had once been such a distinguished ornament that his disappearance was long unnoticed.  And when at last someone noticed it, in Deb’s hearing, the light and callous way in which his trouble was referred to went to her heart—­ knowing all she knew.  One of her generous impulses came to her on the spot, and an hour later she was at the door of his chambers, inquiring after him.

His man—­a very jewel of a man—­received her at the door, gravely, cautiously, keeping it half shut.  He reported his master mending, but still weak, and not able to see anyone.  Females of all kinds were sternly discouraged by this prudent person, from force of old habit.

“Oh, of course not,” said Deb off-handedly.  “Just give him my card, please, and say I’m very glad to hear he is not as ill as I feared.”

On pain of dismissal from the best service he had ever known—­and he had known it now for a long time—­Manton had to find the lady’s address.  As soon as it was supplied to him, Claud sent for her to come and see him.

“Are we not old enough now to dispense with chaperons?” he wrote; and the sight of his hand-writing after all these long years moved her strangely.  “If you think not, bring the deafest old post of your acquaintance.  Only do come.  I haven’t had anybody to speak to for a week.”

“Of course we are old enough,” commented Deb, as she read the words.  “The idea of fussing about chaperons and that nonsense at our time of life!” And she proceeded to array herself in her most youthful summer dress, which was also the choicest of her stock, taking the utmost pains to match toque and gloves, while full of indignation against his friends for so shamefully neglecting him.

Boldly she ascended to his sitting-room in the wake of tight-lipped Manton, who presently brought tea, and at intervals tended the fire, apparently without once casting an eye upon her.  Claud was up and dressed in her honour, while fit only for his bed.  In the midst of the refined luxury that he had gathered about him, he looked but the ghost of a man, worn with his illness and the fatigue of preparing for her.  It was one of those English summers that never answered to its name, and he sat in a sable-lined overcoat—­considered more respectful than a dressing-gown—­in a heat that almost choked her.

But with swelling heart she hurried to his side, and, after greetings, drew a chair close up to his, took the hand he silently extended, and held it in a long, warm, maternal clasp.  Manton retired and shut the door.  The invalid lay back on his cushions, and closed his eyes.  The visitor, watching him, detected an oozing tear—­the first she had ever seen there.

“How did it happen?” she crooned, and followed the question with many more of the same sort; to which he replied as to a mother or a nurse.