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Thursday to Tuesday, or a day or two longer. Well?”
    â€œBut will he come?” Aaron asked doubtfully.
    â€œI think he may,” Henry said. “Oh, of course he won’t want to, but, as he won’t want to do anything else in particular, it may be possible to work it. Only you’d better keep Joanna out of the way.”
    â€œI don’t know in the least where she is,” the old man said irritably.
    â€œCan’t you find out by the cards?” Henry smiled. “Or must you wait for the Tarots?” On the word his face changed, and he came near to the table. “We will certainly have them,” he said in a low, firm voice. “Who knows? Perhaps we can find out what the Fool means, and why it doesn’t dance.”
    Aaron caught his sleeve. “Henry,” he breathed, “if—if there should be an accident—if there should—who would get the cards?”
    â€œDon’t be a fool,” Henry said roughly. “Haven’t you always told me that violence breaks the knowledge of the cards?”
    â€œThey told me so,” the old man answered reluctantly, “but I don’t see … anyhow, we needn’t both …”
    â€œWait,” his grandson answered, and turned to pick up his coat. “I must get back.” He stretched himself and laughed a little. “Nancy told me to have a good night,” he said, “and here I am spending it talking to you.”
    â€œDon’t talk too much to these people of yours,” Aaron grumbled, “Nancy or any of them.”
    His grandson pulled on his coat. “Nancy and I will talk to one another,” he said, “and perhaps what we say shall be stranger talk than ever lovers had before. Good night. I will tell you what I can do about it all in London.”

3
    THE SHUFFLING OF THE CARDS
    T HE C ONINGSBYS usually went to Eastbourne for Christmas. The habit had been begun because Mr. Coningsby had discovered that he preferred hotel life for those few days to having his own house treated as an hotel. Groups of young people would arrive at any hour of day or night, and Nancy or Ralph, if in, would leap up and rush to welcome them, or, if not in, would arrive soon after, inquiring for friends who had already disappeared. Mr. Coningsby disapproved strongly, but for once found himself helpless, so sudden was the rush; he therefore preferred to be generous and give everyone a thorough change. It was never quite clear whether he regarded this as on his sister’s account chiefly or on his children’s. She was supposed to need it, but they were supposed to enjoy it, and so after the first year they all went back each Christmas to the same hotel; and Mr. Coningsby put up with playing bridge and occasionally observing the revels and discussing civilization with other gentlemen of similar good nature.
    It annoyed him slightly at times that Sybil never seemed quite grateful enough for the mere change—as change. Even the profound content in which she normally seemed to have her being—“sluggish, sluggish,” Mr. Coningsby said to himself when he thought of it, and walked a little more briskly—even that repose must surely be all the pleasanter for a change. There were always some nice women about for her to talk to. Of course, she was pleased to go, but not sufficiently pleased to gratify Mr. Coningsby; he was maddened by that continuous equable delight. She enjoyed everything—and he, he enjoyed nothing.
    But this year things were different—had got, or anyhow were going, to be different. It had begun with Ralph, who, rather confusedly, had intimated that he was going to have a still more thorough change by going off altogether with some friend of his whose people lived somewhere near Lewes. Mr. Coningsby had not said much, or did not seem to himself to have done so, but he had made it clear that he disliked such secession from the family life. To summer