"Great Heaven!" he said. "How long, how long? How much more of this is it possible to bear and still retain the powers of reason? What was it?"
"Could it have been the flowers?" Vera suggested. "It was my fault."
"No, no," Marion cried. "Why your fault? Those white blossoms were innocent enough; we packed them ourselves, we arranged them together."
"Still, I believe it was the flowers," Geoffrey observed. "Why should they have fascinated us in that strange way? It was horrible!"
Horrible indeed, and not the less so because the horrible was not conspicuous by its absence. That innocent flowers, pure white blossoms, could lend themselves to a dark mystery like this was almost maddening.
And yet it must have been so, for no sooner had the flowers been removed and the air of heaven had entered the room than the grip and bitterness of death were past.
"I am sure we were near the end," Marion cried. "Geoff, was it you who snatched the cloth from the table?"
Geoffrey was about to deny the suggestion when his eyes fell upon Ralph's face. It was eager, almost pleading in its aspect. Like a flash the changing expression was gone.
"It must have been mechanical," Geoffrey murmured. "One does those things and calls them impulses. Inspiration would be a better expression, I fancy."
They crowded round him and gave him their thanks, all save Ralph, who sat drumming his fingers on the table as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Nothing seemed to draw him out of his environment.