Lady Ingleby rose, her face as white as the large arum lily in the corner behind her.
“Then that settles it,” she said; “and, do you know, I think we had better not speak of it any more. I am going to ring for tea. And, if you will excuse me for a few moments, while they are bringing it, I will search among my husband’s papers, and try to find those you require for your book.”
She passed swiftly out. Through the closed door, the man she left alone heard her giving quiet orders in the hall.
He crossed the room, in two great strides, to follow her. But at the door he paused; turned, and came slowly back.
He stood on the hearthrug, with bent head; rigid, motionless.
Suddenly he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby’s portrait.
“Curse you!” he said through clenched teeth, and beat his fists upon the marble mantelpiece. “Curse your explosives! And curse your inventions! And curse you for taking her first!” Then he dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God forgive me!” he whispered, brokenly. “But there is a limit to what a man can bear.”
He scarcely noticed the entrance of the footman who brought tea. But when a lighter step paused at the door, he lifted a haggard face, expecting to see Myra.
A quiet woman entered, simply dressed in black merino. Her white linen collar and cuffs gave her the look of a hospital nurse. Her dark hair, neatly parted, was smoothly coiled around her head. She came in, deferentially; yet with a quiet dignity of manner.
“I have come to pour your tea, my lord,” she said. “Lady Ingleby is not well, and fears she must remain in her room. She asks me to give you these papers.”