Whatever his private sorrows may be,

a multi-millionaire,

like any other working man,

should keep abreast of his business.

Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June

to meet a woman broken down, half mad,

who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the grey seas.

He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage women,

and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless.

Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy

by the hour together to any one who would listen.

Hope she had none, and who could offer it?

All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt;

and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment.

Of his own sorrow he spoke little – hardly realised the depth of it

till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk,

‘What’s the use of going on?’