“By the way, Scott,” he said, after a moment, “Dinah’s staying here need not make any difference to you in any way.  She can’t expect to have you at her beck and call as she had in Switzerland.  You must make that clear to her.”

“Very well, old chap.”  Scott spoke without raising his head.  “You’re going to meet her at the station, I suppose?”

“Almost immediately, yes.”  Eustace got up with a movement of suppressed impatience.  “We shall have tea in Isabel’s room.  You needn’t turn up.  I’ll tell them to send yours in here.”

“Oh, don’t trouble!  I’m going to turn up,” very calmly Scott made rejoinder.  He had already begun to write; his hand moved steadily across the sheet.

Sir Eustace’s frown deepened.  “You won’t catch the post with those letters if you do.”

Scott looked up at last, and his eyes were as steady as his hand had been.  “That’s my business, old chap,” he said quietly.  “Don’t you worry yourself about that!”

There was a hint of ferocity about Sir Eustace as he met that steadfast look.  He stood motionless for a moment or two, then flung round on his heel.  Scott returned to his work with the composure characteristic of him, and almost immediately the banging of the door told of his brother’s departure.

Then for a second his hand paused; he passed the other across his eyes with the old gesture of weariness, and a short, hard sigh came from him ere he bent again to his task.

Sir Eustace strode across the hall with the frown still drawing his brows.  An open car was waiting at the door, but ere he went to it he turned aside and knocked peremptorily at another door.

He opened without waiting for a reply and entered a long, low-ceiled room through which the rays of the afternoon sun were pouring.  Isabel, lying on a couch between fire and window, turned her head towards him.

“Haven’t you started yet?  Surely it is getting very late,” she said in her low, rather monotonous voice.

He came to her.  “I prefer starting a bit late,” he said.  “You will have tea ready when we return?”

“Certainly,” she said.

He stood looking down at her intently.  “Are you all right today?” he asked abruptly.

A faint colour rose in her cheeks.  “I am—­as usual,” she said.

“What does that mean?” Curtly he put the question.  “Why don’t you go out more?  Why don’t you get old Lister to make you up a tonic?”

She smiled a little, but there was slight uneasiness behind her smile.  Her eyes had the remote look of one who watches the far horizon.  “My dear Eustace,” she said, “cui bono?”

He stooped suddenly over her.  “It is because you won’t make the effort,” he said, speaking with grim emphasis.  “You’re letting yourself go again, I know; I’ve been watching you for the past week.  And by heaven, Isabel, you shan’t do it!  Scott may be fool enough to let you, but I’m not.  You’ve only been home a week, and you’ve been steadily losing ground ever since you got back.  What is it?  What’s the matter with you?  Tell me what is the matter!”