"I have ordered," said Maurice, nodding in the candlelight, "an extra chair for the table…"
The scraping of footfalls seemed to change and waver.
"An extra place?" said Katharine.
"For Mr. Rainger, of course," her uncle pointed out softly, "in case he should feel well enough to come down. You did not misunderstand, Kate?" He nodded to Thompson, and he was smiling as he turned in mild surprise. "Mr. Emery tells me that he is not in a condition to sit down with us tonight.
"You spoke, Sir Henry?" he added quickly.
"Did I" grunted H. M. "Well, there, now! I must 'a' been thinkin' of something else. I was only thinkin', wonderful constitution that feller Rainger must have."
Chairs scraped. "Most extraordinary," Maurice agreed. "He would struggle to the end. Even to a rope's end, I should fancy." His ghoulish high spirits seemed to whip him on. Somewhere at the table a spoon rattled against a plate. "Come, Kate! You really must eat. I can recommend this soup. If you insist on coming undressed to the table, you must have something to keep you warm. Or perhaps that element has already been supplied? Our young friend from America seems-ah-to evince a similar lack of appetite, from which I seem to deduce material conclusions, may I say? Yes. But it is not flattering to a host. Surely-ah, my boy, you do not think you are dining with the Borgia?"
"No, sir," said Bennett. He felt a small and undiplomatic hammer beginning to beat in his temple. He looked up. "With the Borgia, you at least knew what to expect."
"But surely," said Maurice in a remonstrating tone, "surely American — ah — 'push' and inventiveness would have found a quick way in matters culinary as well as amatory? Would you really have been afraid of poison; or would you not have found a way of giving the poison to the Borgia himself?"
"No, sir," said Bennett. "Only castor oil."