Sophy watched him anxiously. She saw that Gaynor also glanced towards him from time to time. Lady Wychcote had dozed off, with her little travelling-cushion of green morocco behind her head. She slept tightly, as one might say, her eyelids and lips shut fast. She looked old asleep. Her mouth settled and drew down at the corners. Old and hard and disappointed her face looked under its spotted veil, which from a hardy vanity she had not raised when reading.
Chesney crossed and uncrossed his legs several times. The hand on his knee clenched, until the great knuckles shone yellow with little reddish streaks outlining the bones. The eyes of Sophy and Gaynor met. In answer to her look the valet approached, treading softly.
"Do you not think—considering the long journey—we might give an—an extra dose, Gaynor?" she whispered.
"Yes, madam. I was thinking that," he whispered back.
Chesney's lids flew open at these whisperings, which seemed to have reached him even through the dull roar of the great wheels underneath. His eyes looked hostile and mocking. There was a sort of cold hatred in them. Sophy shivered.
"Quick, Gaynor," she said; "prepare it quickly."
She went over to her husband.
"Are you suffering, Cecil?" she asked pityingly.
"Like hell," he said.
"I was afraid so. I'm so sorry, dear. Gaynor is going to give you some medicine at once."