car and the car would not have had an accident and he would not have been faced with the prospect (as he was faced with it) of a legal dispute, to be fought by him on behalf of the insurance company, with the owner of the colliding car. (The owner of the colliding car was a young woman as to whose veracity Carthew had had some exceedingly hard things to say.) Mr. Prohack would have settled the matter, but neither Eve nor the insurance company would let him settle it.  And if the car had not had an accident Eve would not have had traumatic neurasthenia, with all its disconcerting reactions on family life.  And if he had not inherited from a profiteer, Charlie would not have gone off to Glasgow,—­he had heard odds and ends of strange tales as to Charlie’s doings in Glasgow,—­not in the least reassuring!  And if he had not inherited from a profiteer Sissie would not have taken a share in a dancing studio and might never have dangerously danced with that worm Oswald Morfey.  And if he had not inherited from a profiteer he would not have been speculating, with a rich chance of more profiteering, in Roumanian oil with Paul Spinner.  In brief—­well, he ought to get up and turn off a bar of that wasteful radiator.

Yet he was uplifted, happy.  Not because of his wealthy ease.  No!  A week or two ago he had only to think of his fortune to feel uplifted and happy.  But now!

No!  He was uplifted and happy now for the simple reason that he had caught the romance of the doctor’s idea of taking idleness seriously and practising it as a profession.  If circumstances forced him to be idle, he would be idle in the grand manner.  He would do everything that the doctor had suggested, and more. (The doctor saw life like a poet.  He might be a cross between a comedian and a mountebank, but he was a great fellow.) Every species of idleness should have its appointed hour.  In the pursuit of idleness he would become the busiest man in London.  A definite programme would be necessary.  Strict routine would be necessary.  No more loafing about!  He hankered after routine as the drunkard after alcohol.  Routine was what he had been missing.  The absence of routine, and naught else, was retarding his recovery. (Yes, he knew in his heart that what they all said was true,—­he was not getting better.) His own daughter had taught him wisdom.  Inevitably, unavoidably, he was the new rich.  Well, he would be the new rich thoroughly.  No other aim was logical....  Let the radiator burn!

CHAPTER XI

NEURASTHENIA CURED

I