Maxwell Wyndham seated himself with characteristic deliberation of movement. He had fiery red hair that shone brazenly in the lamplight.
"I can't eat by myself, Sir Piers," he remarked, after a moment. "And it isn't particularly good for you to drink without eating either, in your present frame of mind."
Piers sat down, his attitude one of intense weariness. "You really think she'll pull through?" he said.
"I think so," Wyndham answered. "But it won't be a walk over. She will be ill for a long time."
"I'll take her away somewhere," said Piers. "A quiet time at the sea will soon pick her up."
Maxwell Wyndham said nothing.
Piers glanced at him with quick impatience. "Don't you advise that?"
The green eyes countered his like the turn of a swordblade. "Certainly quiet is essential," said Wyndham enigmatically.
Piers made a chafing movement. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," very calmly came the answer, "that if you really value your wife's welfare, you will let someone else take her away."