"Yes, of course," answered Ruth, whose eyes were fixed on Martin. Abruptly, as though breaking loose, she ran across the room and took Martin's hands.
"So you're up and about!" Ruth added, scanning his face and forehead. She added, as though in reproach: "Martin, you look horrible."
He grinned at her. "No worse than a hangover. Honestly!"
Stannard approached more slowly. H.M. had spoken of him as having had a shock, and you could well believe it. Some of his strong vitality — not too much, but some — seemed to have ebbed from him. The black eyes had no glitter, he smiled, though with visible effort As he moved towards them he put one hand on the back of a dark-red wing chair as though his ankle hurt him.
What had he seen in that execution shed last night?
But, for that matter, Ruth herself looked far from well. She was as trim as ever, the small light-brown curls gleaming above the rounded face, her dress a close-clinging green. Yet she looked physically ill. And Martin began to understand the strain which had been growing on everybody all day.
The strain grew and grew. They seldom spoke of it And yet..
"Martin," Ruth began, and braced herself. "Some people are saying what happened to you was an accident It wasn't, was it?"
"No. It wasn't"
Very much, now, he was conscious of H.M. and Masters in the background.