“No! No! No! Nothing tragic! But why shouldn’t you see that the place is properly kept in good hands, and you yourself travel? Travel with the boy? You used to like travelling, and it would do him all the good in the world, at his age. A gap between the Preparatory School and the Public School does no harm, and he is just in the years when a boy takes in what he sees. It is astonishing what one can save if one travels for a year or two.”

“Travel?” repeated Henry, as though in hesitation. He had loved what little travelling he had had when he was young; the word appealed to him. But the ties of his own old place suddenly called him back, as did the now deep rut of daily habit into which his middle age had fallen.

“I couldn’t bear to let it,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I couldn’t let Rackham. Besides, who would take it? Who would keep it up?”

“My dear fellow, I didn’t suggest that you should let it exactly. I have an idea, and I want to put it before you, and I want you to think it over really carefully. There’s no hurry. I would look after the place. I could be here off and on the whole time, week-ends and what not. I have got the means and I should like the job. I am fond of the country, you know; and Hilda …”

“Do you mean—live here?” said Henry.

“Well, my dear fellow, only off and on, of course, coming down from London. But it would be kept up and cost you nothing, and I would see that it was more or less put to rights, you know. It is a good idea. And I would set what sum you liked, in reason, as my rent to you against your interest as it falls due. And then your farm rentals would come to you—at least, they’d be set against the interest also.”

“The rents don’t come to much now,” said Henry gloomily.

“No; but come—it makes a difference. And you know when one is in a place one always does something to keep it going and even improve it. And, you know, as for the balance, I mean up to £20,000, as I said …”

“Yes, yes,” answered his brother, a little shortly. Then he mused. William followed up. He rose from his chair and paced the room.

“Look here, Henry,” he said, “the long and the short of it is that something must be done, and surely this is the sensible thing to do. You know you like it as far as the travelling goes; it would be delightful for the boy; and then perhaps when the time comes things will have taken a turn for the better.” For it was William now who chose to be vague. He was restless, and sat down again, once more looking his brother in the face. “I have told you, Henry, and surely you must see it, there must be a crash if you don’t look out. Living abroad wouldn’t cost you a half—not a third—of what it costs you to live here, and I’d take it all over—just for the time; and it will save the boy’s schooling as well. There’s everything to be said for it, and nothing against it. Come! Think it over.”

There was a very long silence. By the end of it the elder brother had taken one of those curiously rapid decisions which the undetermined do take when they are brought up suddenly against realities.

He simply said:

“Very well, William.” Then he sighed, and added: “Yes … I think you’re right.”

Another silence followed, during which the younger and more prosperous man felt like an exhausted swimmer who touches the shore with his feet. His speech was lighter when he resumed.

“Well, I am heartily glad of that, Henry.