“Yes,” said Lady Aviolet doubtfully. “If no one will have any more tea, shall we ring and have the things taken away?”
With each postponement of the inevitable crisis, Lucian saw that all of them, except perhaps Cecil, were regaining a measure of poise. Lady Aviolet, indeed, had never lost hers. The avoidance of display had, with her, become an instinct.
The table was cleared, and the formal circle of chairs broken up. Cecil was next to his mother, staring into the fire, and the tragic, fatigued gaze of Rose never left him.
“Now, Cecil, you’ve got out of this—this mess, a good deal more easily than you had any right to expect. But I don’t want you to think that the whole thing ends here. We’ve a right to some sort of explanation, and if you’ve anything to say, now’s your time,” said Sir Thomas.
Cecil, for the first time, looked up, and his white lips moved, but he said nothing at all.
“What made you do it?” asked Ford. His tone was one of utter detachment.
Cecil shook his head.
“Speak up!” ordered his grandfather, with sudden wrath.
“It isn’t fair,” cried Rose passionately. “Why do you torment him with questions now? It can’t undo what’s happened, to talk about it.”
“It can be of very material assistance in preventing its ever happening again, however,” retorted Ford swiftly.