The life he was leading was playing the devil
with his nerves and brain. His brain had nothing to do. Hard work
might not be the cure for every kind of nervous trouble, but it was
the one cure for the kind that he had got.
He ought to have gone away seven years ago. It was Gwenda's fault that
he hadn't gone. He felt a dull anger against her as against a woman
who had wrecked his chance.
He had a chance of going now if he cared to take it.
He had had a letter that morning from Dr. Harker asking if he had
meant what he had said a year ago, and if he'd care to exchange his
Rathdale practice for his old practice in Leeds. Harker's wife was
threatened with lung trouble, and they would have to live in the
country somewhere, and Harker himself wouldn't be sorry for the
exchange. His present practice was worth twice what it had been ten
years ago and it was growing. There were all sorts of interesting
things to be done in Leeds by a man of Rowcliffe's keenness and
energy.
"Do you know, Steven, you're getting quite stout?"
"I do know," he said almost with bitterness.
"I don't mean horridly stout, dear, just nicely and comfortably
stout."
"I'm _too_ comfortable," he said. "I don't do enough work to keep me
fit."
"Is that what's bothering you?"
He frowned. It was Harker's letter that was bothering him. He said so.
For one instant Mary looked impatient.
"I thought we'd settled that," she said.
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