of looking for me and asking me to go with him. . . . It's all egoism, it's always thinking of your own self. . . . If there's any paying to be done, that's all right, that's what Uncle Henri's there for; but the least little thought for me . . . not a bit of it! . . . That's the way it goes. I've lost Addie . . . and tried to find him again in another and it's simply impossible and ridiculous."
Still young and active, he slung himself on his bicycle and for a minute or two enjoyed the motion of the handsome, glittering machine, as it glided down the summer lanes; but very soon he began to think, gloomily:
"A motor-car I should have liked to have. I'm not buying one because of those everlasting boys: life is expensive enough as it is. . . . And instead of Guy's thinking of me now and again. . . . Ah, well, if you want to do good to others, you must just do it because it is good; for to expect the least bit of gratitude is all rot!"
No, cycling alone did not console him; his handsome, glittering, nickel-plated machine glided listlessly down the summer lanes and he suddenly turned round:
"That's enough for me . . . all by myself, without anybody or anything. . . ."
And he rode back home slowly, put the machine away and looked at the empty stand where Guy usually kept his machine.
"Have you seen Guy?" asked Constance, meeting her husband in the hail.
"He's out," said Van der Welcke, curtly and angrily.
"He hasn't been working," she added. "I always look into Addie's study to see if Guy is at work: Addie asked me to."
"No, he has not been working; he's . . ."
