They were growing uneasy at the castle. There was a forced cheerfulness about the small party that testified to the nervous tension that held them. For some years now there had been a tacit understanding on the subject of punctuality. Such a thing was necessary when any moment might precipitate the next catastrophe. The mere fact of anybody being late for five minutes sufficed to put the rest in a fever. And Geoffrey had not come in to tea at all.
The thing was almost in itself a tragedy. Geoffrey was always so considerate of others. Nothing in the world would have induced him to stay away without first saying he was going to do so or sending a message. And tea had been a thing of the past for a good hour. What could have become of him?
Nobody asked the question, but it was uppermost in the minds of all. Vera was chattering with feverish gayety, but there was a blazing red spot on her ghastly white face, and her eyes were wild and restless.
Marion had slipped away. The only one who betrayed no anxiety was Ralph. He sat sipping his chilled tea as if he had the world to himself and there was nobody else in it.
Presently, with one excuse or another, all slipped away until Vera was alone with Ralph. He was so quiet that she had almost forgotten his presence. When she thought herself alone she rose to her feet and paced the room rapidly.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.
"God spare him," she whispered, "spare him to me! Oh, it is wicked to feel like this and so utterly selfish. But if Geoffrey dies I have nothing to live for."
The tears rose to her eyes, tears of agony and reproach and self-pity. Ralph crossed the room silently. He was upon the girl ere she had heard the soft fall of his footsteps. He laid a hand on Vera's arm.
"Geoffrey is not going to die," he said.