The spirit helped to steady her, and at length she rose.
"I am going to my room, Eustace," she said, not looking at him. "I—can't go out to-night. Perhaps you will make my excuses."
He did not answer her, and she threw him a swift glance. He was standing stiff and upright. His face was stern and composed; it might have been a stone mask.
"What excuse am I to make?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. The question was utterly unexpected.
"Why, the truth—of course," she said. "Say that I have been upset by the news, that—that—I hadn't the heart—I couldn't—Eustace,"—appealing suddenly, a tremor of indignation in her voice—"you don't seem to realise that he is one of my greatest friends. Don't you understand?"
"Yes," he said—"yes, I understand!"
And she marvelled at the coldness—the deadly, concentrated coldness—of his voice.
"All the same," he went on, "I think you must make an effort to accompany me to the Bentleys' to-night. It might be thought unusual if I went alone."
She stared at him in sudden, amazed anger.