"You can't do anything, old man," he said with a roughness that was kindness. "Finish your tea."
And at that instant Rosamond sank into the proffered seat beside him. So there they sat, side by side, those two, one blazing red, one deathly white, silent and constrained.
And all the rest at the breakfast-table talked feverishly and painfully with a haste and loudness that appeared to them obligatory.
Those who watched say that Sir Caryll drank his tea and ate two slices of buttered toast, and that Miss Veynol spooned an egg without upsetting the cup; which may be perfectly true, though neither he nor she was aware of doing any such thing.
What they did they did subconsciously, their conscious minds being very much otherwise engaged. One thing is certain, however, and that is that neither of them spoke, until, happening to look up, Carleigh saw that everybody else had got up and got out and left them quite alone.
He felt then that he simply had to say something, and so he said, as so often happens, the one thing that he shouldn't have said. He asked: "Is your mother here?"
Miss Veynol looked down, shivered slightly, rose, and moved over to a window. Carleigh rose, too, and followed her.
"Mama is in Ireland," she answered at length, in a low, sweet voice. "She told me before she went—she—" Then she stopped.
He threw his gaze over her from head to feet. He felt bitter and scornful, and yet the memories crowded fast. After all, she was very lovely, and—odd how he had seen her face early this very morning when for all he knew he was dropping to his death!
"What do you think of me, anyway?" he asked at length. "What is your final opinion of us all three?"