nscious that for three or four months, in the empty
Babylon, he would have ample stores of time. But toward the end of
August he got a letter from Grace in which she spoke of her situation
and of her mother's in a manner that seemed to impose on him the doing
of something tactful. They were paying a third visit--he knew that in
Calcutta Gardens lady's-maids had been to and fro with boxes,
replenishments of wardrobes--and yet somehow the outlook for the autumn
was dark. Grace didn't say it in so many words, but what he read between
the lines was that they had no more invitations. What, therefore, in
pity's name was to become of them? People liked them well enough when
Biddy was with them, but they didn't care for her mother and her, that
prospect _tout pur_, and Biddy was cooped up indefinitely with Julia.
This was not the manner in which Grace had anciently alluded to her
sister's happy visits at Harsh, and the change of tone made Nick wince
with a sense of all that had collapsed. Biddy was a little fish worth
landing in short, scantly as she seemed disposed to bite, and Grace's
rude probity could admit that she herself was not.

Nick had an inspiration: by way of doing something tactful he went down
to Brighton and took lodgings, for several weeks, in the general
interest, the very quietest and sunniest he could find. This he intended
as a kindly surprise, a reminder of how he had his mother's and sisters'
comfort at heart, how he could exert himself and save them trouble. But
he had no sooner concluded his bargain--it was a more costly one than he
had at first calculated--than he was bewildered and befogged to learn
that the persons on whose behalf he had so exerted himself were to pass
the autumn at Broadwood with Julia. That daughter of privilege had taken
the place into familiar use again and was now correcting their former
surprise at her crude indifference--this was infinitely characteristic
of Julia--by inviting them to share it with her. Nick wondered vaguely
what she was "up to"; but when his mother treated herself to the line
irony of addressing him an elaborately humble request for his consent to
their accepting the merciful refuge--she repeated this expression three
times--he replied that she might do exactly as she liked: he would only
mention that he shouldn't feel himself at liberty to come and see her
there. This condition proved apparently to Lady Agnes's mind no
hindrance, and she and her daughters wer