"What's the matter?" they all asked.
"Nothing. That is..." He could not speak. Ian made him sit down and went to a sideboard for brandy, which he waved aside.
"Joseph Skarbek is here," he stammered.
"Roman, you mean?" suggested Ian.
He shook his head and said with sudden vigor:
"No--not Roman. He..." Then, with another effort, painful to see, he added: "Roman went away this morning."
They thought he was going to faint. Ian loosened his neckband, the Countess dipped her napkin in water and dabbed his wrinkled face; Vanda made him drink something. Minnie stood near, watching and listening. He had enough people taking care of him; besides, it took all her time to follow what was said. They talked Polish; a habit of theirs whenever they got excited or related thrilling experiences, so that she had to concentrate all her energies upon listening to them. They were pained and puzzled over Father Constantine, speculating as to what had happened to upset him like this.
"He is overworked," was Vanda's verdict, "I'm sure he's not been to bed last night. Look how rumpled he is."
He lay back in the chair, his eyes closed, his thin hands, puckered with age and none too clean, closing and unclosing on the chair arms.
"Worn out," said Ian, whilst his mother watched her faithful chaplain with deep concern. "I'll take him into my room. It's quiet there." He proceeded to do this; but the patient suddenly sat upright and said peremptorily: