"No, it's not that—at least, not in the sense you mean."
Hurriedly Rupert made answer. He looked for a moment at the glasses on the table, but he did not attempt to help himself. Suddenly he shivered.
"Ye gods! What an infernal night! I had to walk ever so far before I found a taxi. I came up by the evening train—couldn't get off duty sooner. I thought you would be off to Dover before I got here. And I—and I—" He broke off blankly and became silent, as if he had forgotten what he had meant to say.
Mordaunt leaned over the table, and mixed a drink with the utmost steadiness. "Sit down," he said. "And now drink this, and pull yourself together. There's nothing to be in a funk about, so take your time."
He spoke with authority, but his manner had the aloofness of one not greatly interested in the matter in hand. He resented the boy's intrusion, that was all.
Rupert accepted his hospitality in silence. This obvious lack of interest increased his difficulties tenfold.
Mordaunt went back to his chair by the window, and relighted his pipe. He knew he was being cold-blooded, but he felt absolutely incapable of kindling any warmth. There seemed to be no warmth left in him.
Rupert gulped down his drink, and buried his face in his hands. He felt that the thing he had come to do was beyond his power to accomplish. He could not make his confession to a stone image. And yet he could not go, leaving it unmade.
In the long pause that followed it almost seemed as if Mordaunt had forgotten his presence in the room. The minutes ticked away, and he made no sign.
At last, desperately, Rupert lifted his head. "Trevor!"