LORD HOLCHESTER'S servants--with the butler at their head--wereon the look-out for Mr. Julius Delamayn's arrival from Scotland.The appearance of the two brothers together took the wholedomestic establishment by surprise. Inquiries were addressed tothe butler by Julius; Geoffrey standing by, and taking no otherthan a listener's part in the proceedings.

"Is my father alive?"

"His lordship, I am rejoiced to say, has astonished the doctors,Sir. He rallied last night in the most wonderful way. If thingsgo on for the next eight-and-forty hours as they are going now,my lord's recovery is considered certain."

"What was the illness?"

"A paralytic stroke, Sir. When her ladyship telegraphed to you inScotland the doctors had given his lordship up."

"Is my mother at home?"

"Her ladyship is at home to _you,_, Sir."'

The butler laid a special emphasis on the personal pronoun.Julius turned to his brother. The change for the better in thestate of Lord Holchester's health made Geoffrey's position, atthat moment, an embarrassing one. He had been positivelyforbidden to enter the house. His one excuse for setting thatprohibitory sentence at defiance rested on the assumption thathis father was actually dying. As matters now stood, LordHolchester's order remained in full force. The under-servants inthe hall (charged to obey that order as they valued their places)looked from "Mr. Geoffrey" to the butler, The butler looked from"Mr. Geoffrey" to "Mr. Julius." Julius looked at his brother.There was an awkward pause. The position of the second son wasthe position of a wild beast in the house--a creature to be gotrid of, without risk to yourself, if you only knew how.

Geoffrey spoke, and solved the problem

"Open the door, one of you fellows," he said to the footmen. "I'moff."

"Wait a minute," interposed his brother. "It will be a saddisappointment to my mother to know that you have been here, andgone away again without seeing her. These are no ordinarycircumstances, Geoffrey. Come up stairs with me--I'll take it onmyself."

"I'm blessed if I take it on _my_self!" returned Geoffrey. "Openthe door!"

"Wait here, at any rate," pleaded Julius, "till I can send youdown a message."

"Send your message to Nagle's Hotel. I'm at home at Nagle's--I'mnot at home here."

At that point the discussion was interrupted by the appearance ofa little terrier in the hall. Seeing strangers, the dog began tobark. Perfect tranquillity in the house had been absolutelyinsisted on by the doctors; and the servants, all trying togetherto catch the animal and quiet him, simply aggravated the noise hewas making. Geoffrey solved this problem also in his own decisiveway. He swung round as the dog was passing him, and kicked itwith his heavy boot. The little creature fell on the spot,whining piteously. "My lady's pet dog!" exclaimed the butler."You've broken its ribs, Sir." "I've broken it of barking, youmean," retorted Geoffrey. "Ribs be hanged!" He turned to hisbrother. "That settles it," he said, jocosely. "I'd better deferthe pleasure of calling on dear mamma till the next opportunity.Ta-ta, Julius. You know where to find me. Come, and dine. We'llgive you a steak at Nagle's that will make a man of you."

He went out. The tall footmen eyed his lordship's second son withunaffected respect. They had seen him, in public, at the annualfestival of the Christian-Pugilistic-Association, with "thegloves" on. He could have beaten the biggest man in the hallwithin an inch of his life in three minutes. The porter bowed ashe threw open the door. The whole interest and attention of thedomestic establishment then present was concentrated on Geoffrey.Julius went up stairs to his mother without attracting theslightest notice.

The month was August. The streets were empty. The vilest breezethat blows--a hot east wind in London--was the breeze abroad onthat day. Even Geoffrey appeared to feel the influence of theweather as the cab carried him from his father's door to thehotel. He took off his hat, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and lithis everlasting pipe, and growled and grumbled between his teethin the intervals of smoking. Was it only the hot wind that wrungfrom him these demonstrations of discomfort? Or was there somesecret anxiety in his mind which assisted the depressinginfluences of the day? There was a secret anxiety in his mind.And the name of it was--Anne.

As things actually were at that moment, what course was he totake with the unhappy woman who was waiting to hear from him atthe Scotch inn?

To write? or not to write? That was the question with Geoffrey.

The preliminary difficulty, relating to addressing a letter toAnne at the inn, had been already provided for. She haddecided--if it proved necessary to give her name, before Geoffreyjoined her--to call herself Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. Aletter addressed to "Mrs. Silvester" might be trusted to find itsway to her without causing any embarrassment. The doubt was nothere. The doubt lay, as usual, between two alternatives. Whichcourse would it be wisest to take?--to inform Anne, by that day'spost, that an interval of forty-eight hours must elapse beforehis father's recovery could be considered certain? Or to waittill the interval was over, and be guided by the result?Considering the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wisecourse was to temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as theythen stood.

Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write theletter--doubted--and tore it up--doubted again--and beganagain--doubted once more--and tore up the second letter--rose tohis feet--and owned to himself (in unprintable language) that hecouldn't for the life of him decide which was safest--to write orto wait.

In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him tohealthy physical remedies for relief. "My mind's in a muddle,"said Geoffrey. "I'll try a bath."

It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, andcombining many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged.He simmered. He stood under a pipe, and received a cataract ofcold water on his head. He was laid on his back; he was laid onhis stomach; he was respectfully pounded and kneaded, from headto foot, by the knuckles of accomplished practitioners. He cameout of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He returned to thehotel, and took up the writing materials--and behold theintolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washedout! This time he laid it all to Anne. "That infernal woman willbe the ruin of me," said Geoffrey, taking up his hat. "I must trythe dumb-bells."

The pursuit of the new remedy for stimulating a sluggish braintook him to a public house, kept by the professional pedestrianwho had the honor of training him when he contended at AthleticSports.

"A private room and the dumb-bells!" cried Geoffrey. "Theheaviest you have got."

He stripped himself of his upper clothing, and set to work, withthe heavy weights in each hand, waving them up and down, andbackward and forward, in every attainable variety o f movement,till his magnificent muscles seemed on the point of startingthrough his sleek skin. Little by little his animal spiritsroused themselves. The strong exertion intoxicated the strongman. In sheer excitement he swore cheerfully--invoking thunderand lightning, explosion and blood, in return for the complimentsprofusely paid to him by the pedestrian and the pedestrian's son."Pen, ink, and paper!" he roared, when he could use thedumb-bells no longer. "My mind's made up; I'll write, and havedone with it!" He sat down to his writing on the spot; actuallyfinished the letter; another minute would have dispatched it tothe post--and, in that minute, the maddening indecision tookpossession of him once more. He opened the letter again, read itover again, and tore it up again. "I'm out of my mind!" criedGeoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue eyes fiercely on theprofessor who trained him. "Thunder and lightning! Explosion andblood! Send for Crouch."

Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known andrespected) was a retired prize-fighter. He appeared with thethird and last remedy for clearing the mind known to theHonorable Geoffrey Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves ina carpet-bag.

The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and facedeach other in the classically correct posture of pugilisticdefense. "None of your play, mind!" growled Geoffrey. "Fight, youbeggar, as if you were in the Ring again with orders to win." Noman knew better than the great and terrible Crouch what realfighting meant, and what heavy blows might be given even withsuch apparently harmless weapons as stuffed and padded gloves. Hepretended, and only pretended, to comply with his patron'srequest. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance byknocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffledcomposure. "Well hit, Sir!" he said. "Try it with the other handnow." Geoffrey's temper was not under similar control. Invokingeverlasting destruction on the frequently-blackened eyes ofCrouch, he threatened instant withdrawal of his patronage andsupport unless the polite pugilist hit, then and there, as hardas he could. The hero of a hundred fights quailed at the dreadfulprospect. "I've got a family to support," remarked Crouch. "Ifyou _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!" The fall of Geoffreyfollowed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in aninstant--not satisfied even yet. "None of your body-hitting!" heroared. "Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion andblood! Knock it out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouchstuck to the head. The two gave and took blows which would havestunned--possibly have killed--any civilized member of thecommunity. Now on one side of his patron's iron skull, and now onthe other, the hammering of the prize-fighter's gloves fell,thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until even Geoffrey himselfhad had enough of it. "Thank you, Crouch," he said, speakingcivilly to the man for the first time. "That will do. I feel niceand clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he wasrubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank amighty draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as ifby magic. "Want the pen and ink, Sir?" inquired his pedestrianhost. "Not I!" answered Geoffrey. "The muddle's out of me now.Pen and ink be hanged! I shall look up some of our fellows, andgo to the play." He left the public house in the happiestcondition of mental calm. Inspired by the stimulant applicationof Crouch's gloves, his torpid cunning had been shaken up intoexcellent working order at last. Write to Anne? Who but a foolwould write to such a woman as that until he was forced to it?Wait and see what the chances of the next eight-and-forty hoursmight bring forth, and then write to her, or desert her, as theevent might decide. It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only seeit. Thanks to Crouch, he did see it--and so away in a pleasanttemper for a dinner with "our fellows" and an evening at theplay!