"I do, of course," he agreed, vexed at his own incorrigible
tendency to magnify Flamel's importance by hovering about the
topic. "A sail would be rather jolly; let's go."

She made no reply and he drew forth the rolled-up evening papers
which he had thrust into his pocket on leaving the train. As he
smoothed them out his own countenance seemed to undergo the same
process. He ran his eye down the list of stocks and Flamel's
importunate personality receded behind the rows of figures pushing
forward into notice like so many bearers of good news. Glennard's
investments were flowering like his garden: the dryest shares
blossomed into dividends, and a golden harvest awaited his sickle.

He glanced at his wife with the tranquil air of the man who
digests good luck as naturally as the dry ground absorbs a shower.
"Things are looking uncommonly well. I believe we shall be able
to go to town for two or three months next winter if we can find
something cheap."

She smiled luxuriously: it was pleasant to be able to say, with an
air of balancing relative advantages, "Really, on the baby's
account I shall be almost sorry; but if we do go, there's Kate
Erskine's house . . . she'll let us have it for almost nothing. . . ."

"Well, write her about it," he recommended, his eyes travelling on
in search of the weather report. He had turned to the wrong page;
and suddenly a line of black characters leapt out at him as from
an ambush.