They both glanced toward John, who showed no signs of movement. Then they drank together, the older man and his servant. Still John never moved. Jennings drained his glass, placed the decanter by his master's side, and withdrew.
"So the poison's still there, brother?" Stephen asked.
"And will be so long as I live," John confessed gloomily. "For all that, I'll not drink your toast."
"Why not?"
"There was a little girl—you saw her when you were in London. She is married now, but I think of her sometimes; and when I do, you and old Jennings seem to me like a couple of blithering idiots cursing things too wonderful for you to understand!"
Stephen made no protest. For a time he smoked in silence. Curiously enough, as they sat there together, some of the grim fierceness seemed to have passed from his expression and settled upon John. More than once, as he looked across at his younger brother, it almost seemed as if there was something of self-reproach in his questioning look.
"You dined at the ordinary in Market Ketton?" Stephen asked at last.
"I did."
"Then you heard the news?"
"Who could help it?" John muttered. "There wasn't much else talked about."