He was acutely uncomfortable, but even his discomfort was somehow a joy.
"Yes," he admitted. "Yes."
"Oh! Here's Carlo Trent," said she.
He heard Trent's triumphant voice, carrying the end of a conversation into the room: "If he hadn't been going away," Carlo Trent was saying, "Pilgrim would have taken it. Pilgrim—"
The poet's eyes met Edward Henry's, and the sentence was never finished.
"How d'ye do, Machin?" murmured the poet.
Then a bell began to ring and would not stop.
"You're staying for the reception afterwards?" said Elsie April as the room emptied.
"Is there one?"
"Of course."