It was not, perhaps, heroic exertion that he was roused into making.  But it wanted courage in a man of Edmund’s age to begin to work for six hours or more a day at journalism.  He also produced two articles on foreign politics for the reviews, which made a considerable impression.  It was important now that Edmund had read and watched, and, even more important, listened very attentively to what busier men than himself had to say during twenty years of life spent in the world.  Years afterwards, when Grosse had in the second half of his life done as much work as many men would think a good record for their whole lives, people were surprised to read his age in the obituary notices.  They had rightly dated the beginning of his career from his first appearance as an authority on foreign politics, but they had not realised that Grosse had begun to work only in the midstream of life.  Many brilliant springs are delusive in their promise, but rarely is there such achievement after an unprofitable youth.

Love is not the whole life of a man, but, in spite of new activities, in spite of a renewed sense of self-respect, Edmund had time and space enough for much pain in his heart.

Rose was still in Paris taking care of her mother, who was very unwell.  Edmund had hinted at the possibility of going over to see them at Easter, but the suggestion had met with no encouragement.  He had felt rebuffed, and was in no mood to be smoothed or melted by Rose’s written sympathy.  He was, no doubt, harder as well as stronger than before his financial troubles.  He let Rose see that he could stand on his feet, and was not disposed to whine.  Meanwhile Molly had provoked him to single combat.  The decided cut she gave him at the Court was not to be permitted; he was too old a hand to allow anything so crude.  He meant to be at her parties; he meant to keep in touch; indeed he meant to see this thing out.

“Sir Edmund, will you take Miss Dexter in to dinner?”

Edmund looked fairly surprised and very respectful as Mrs. Delaport Green spoke to him.  Molly’s bearing was, he could see, defiant, but she was clearly quite conscious of having to submit and anxious to do nothing absurd.

They ate their soup in silence, for Molly’s other neighbour had shown an unflattering eagerness to be absorbed by the lady he had taken down.  Edmund turned to her with exactly his old shade of manner, very paternal, intimate and gentle.

“And you are not bored yet?”

Molly could have sworn deep and long had it been possible.

“No; why should I be?”

She stared at him for a moment indifferently, as at a stranger, but he could see the nervous movement of her fingers as she crumbed her bread.

“It is more likely,” he answered, “that I should remember what I allude to than that you should.  We once had a talk about being bored.  I said I had never been bored while I was poor.  Now I am poor again, so I naturally remember, and, as you are trying the experience of being very rich, I should really like to know if you are bored yet.”