Mr. Taynton sat down heavily on the sofa.
"No, no; don't say it, don't say it," he murmured. "It can't be true, I can't believe it."
"But it is true, and you have got to believe it. He suggested that you should go and talk it over with him. I will drive you up in the car, if you wish—"
Mr. Taynton waved his hand with a negative gesture.
"No, no, not at once," he cried. "I must think it over. I must get used to this dreadful, this appalling shock. I am utterly distraught."
Morris turned to him, and across his face for one moment there shot, swift as a lightning-flash, a quiver of rage so rabid that he looked scarcely human, but like some Greek presentment of the Furies or Revenge. Never, so thought his old friend, had he seen such glorious youthful beauty so instinct and inspired with hate. It was the demoniacal force of that which lent such splendour to it. But it passed in a second, and Morris still very pale, very quiet spoke to him.
"Where is he?" he asked. "I must see him at once. It won't keep."
Then he sprang up, his rage again mastering him.
"What shall I do it with?" he said. "What shall I do it with?"
For the moment Mr. Taynton forgot himself and his anxieties.