In the pause also she saw him as he was—a man broken before his prime, haggard and tired and old, with the fire of his genius quenched for ever in the bitter waters of adversity.
With an effort he spoke. "It is nothing, chérie. You are the same. But with me—all is changed."
"Changed, Bertie? But how?"
He looked at her. His eyes dwelt upon the vivid, happy face, but all the spontaneous gladness had died out of his own; it held only an infinite melancholy.
"He—Mr. Mordaunt—has not told you?"
"No one has told me anything," she said. "What is it, Bertie? Have things gone wrong with you? Tell me! Was it—was it the gun?"
He bent his head.
"Oh, but I'm so sorry," she said. "Was it a failure, after all?"
She drew near to him. She laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm.
A sharp tremor went through him. He stooped very low and kissed it. "It was—worse than that," he said, his voice choked, barely audible. "It was—it was—dishonour."