But the old shadow still lingered in his eyes; the
strained lines about his lips did not relax. Weldon's mental healing
kept no pace with his physical one.
By degrees, too, his table littered itself with cards of invitation.
As yet, he felt himself too weak for any but the most informal
functions; and Carew, always at his elbow, assured him from his own
experience that informality, just then, was an unknown word in the
social vocabulary of Cape Town. Carew, bidden on all sides, was
dividing his time between his convalescent friend and the gayeties
of early winter. He dined and danced almost without ceasing; and, in
the intervals of his dining and dancing, he told over to Weldon all
the details of his social career. And these details largely
concerned themselves with Ethel Dent: how she looked, what she wore,
what she said, with whom she danced and with whom she sat it out.
And, as he listened, Weldon made up his mind that, for him, the time
for resting at home was ended. It was better, easier to go to see
for himself than it was to sit at home and imagine things, or to
hear about them, after they had happened. There was to be a
reception at the Citadel, next week.
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