The Elder was sipping his coffee, and his cup fell into the saucer with a crash, breaking both fragile pieces into fragments. The contents were sprayed over the linen, and drops stained the Elder’s white waistcoat.
“Father!” cried Elizabeth. “What is the matter? You are ill!”
He did not answer. He turned an ashen face toward Mr. McGowan, and with a wild stare studied that young man’s face. The two men sprang to the old man’s assistance, but as the minister reached out his hand Mr. Fox gave a startled cry and threw up his arm as though to ward off a blow.
“Go back to your seats!” ordered the Elder thickly. “Do not mind me. I’m all right, or shall be in a few seconds.”
He fought helplessly for self-control.
“Come, Dad, you must go to your room,” declared Harold, taking his father tightly by the arm.
“I’m not ill, sir,” answered the father, stubbornly. “But it might be as well for me to retire from the table. You need not trouble, 70 Mr. McGowan. I shall get on quite well with my son’s assistance,” he affirmed, waving the minister back.
Mr. Fox drew his handkerchief across his perspiring forehead, and dazedly eyed the stained cloth. “I’m sorry, Beth, very sorry I was so awkward.”
“Don’t mind the cloth, Father,” begged the girl tearfully.
“You remain with Mr. McGowan, Beth. I shall soon be quite myself. Fainting spell, I guess.”