In a week’s time, the Elgars’ life had resumed the course it held before that interruption—­with the exception that Reuben, as often as it was possible, avoided accompanying his wife when she went from home.  His own engagements multiplied, and twice before the end of July he spent Saturday and Sunday out of town.  Cecily made no close inquiries concerning his employment of his time; on their meeting again, he always gave her an account of what he had been doing, and she readily accepted it.  For she had now abandoned all hope of his doing serious work; she never spoke a word which hinted regret at his mode of life.  They were on placid terms, and she had no such faith in anything better as would justify her in endangering the recovered calm.

It became necessary at length to discuss what they should do with themselves during the autumn.  Mrs. Lessingham was going with friends to the Pyrenees.  The Delphs would take a short holiday in Sussex; Irene could not spare much time from her work.

“I don’t care to be away long myself,” Reuben said, when Cecily mentioned this.  “I feel as if I should be able to get on with my Puritanic pursuits again when we return.”

Cecily looked at him, to see if he spoke in earnest.  In spite of his jesting tone, he seemed to be serious, for he was pacing the floor, his head bent as if in meditation.

“Make your own plans,” was her reply.  “But we won’t go into Cornwall, I think.”

“No, not this year.”

They spent a month at Eastbourne.  Some agreeable people whom they were accustomed to meet at Mrs. Lessingham’s had a house there, and supplied them with society.  Towards the end of the month, Reuben grew restless and uncertain of temper; he wandered on the downs by himself, and when at home kept silence.  The child, too, was constantly ailing, and its cry irritated him.

“The fact of the matter is,” he exclaimed one evening, “I don’t feel altogether well!  I ought to have had more change than this.  If I go back and settle to work, I shall break down.”

“What kind of change do you wish for?” Cecily asked.

“I should have liked to take a ramble in Germany, or, Norway—­some new part.  But nothing of that is possible.  Clarence makes slaves of us.”

Cecily reflected.

“There’s no reason why he should hinder you from going.”

“Oh, I can’t leave you alone,” he returned impatiently.

“I think you might, for a few weeks—­if you feel it necessary.  I don’t think Clarence ought to leave the seaside till the middle of September.  The Robinsons will be here still, you know.”

He muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should go over by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened to attract him.  Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bid her good-bye.  She had said that it wasn’t worth while going with him to the station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she kept perfectly tranquil.