On the day after Denzil departed, leaving by a night train for
London.
He was in town for a week, then took a voyage to Madeira, where he
remained until there was only time enough to get back for the
opening of Parliament. The natural plea of shaken health excused him
to his constituents, many of whom favoured him with their
unsolicited correspondence. (He had three or four long letters from
Mr. Chown, who thought it necessary to keep the borough member
posted in the course of English politics.) From Glazzard he heard
twice, with cheerful news. "How it happened," he had written to his
newly-married friend, in telling of Lilian's death, "I will explain
some day; I cannot speak of it yet." Glazzard's response was full of
manly sympathy. "I don't pretend," wrote the connoisseur, "that I am
ideally mated, but my wife is a good girl, and I understand enough
of happiness in marriage to appreciate to the full how terrible is
your loss. Let confidences be for the future; if they do not come
naturally, be assured I shall never pain you by a question."
Denzil's book had now been for several weeks before the public; it
would evidently excite little attention. "A capital present for a
schoolboy," was one of the best things the critics had yet found to
say of it. He suffered disappointment, but did not seriously resent
the world's indifference.
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