Frederic mumbled something fatuous about being glad to see her, and felt his face burn under her steady gaze. His father came forward.
“Yes; this is Frederic, my dear,” he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice. As she withdrew her hand from Frederic's clasp James Brood extended his. “How are you, Frederic?”
“Quite well, sir.”
They shook hands in the most perfunctory manner.
“I need not ask how you are, father,” said the son, after an instant's hesitation. “You never looked better, sir.”
“Thank you. I am well. Ah, Mrs Desmond! It is good to be home again with you all. My dear, permit me to introduce Mrs John Desmond. You have heard me speak of my old comrade and——”
“I have heard you speak of Mr Desmond a thousand times,” said his wife. There may have been a shade of emphasis on the prefix, but it was so slight that no one remarked it save the widow of John Desmond, who had joined the group.
“The best pal a man ever had,” said Mr Dawes with conviction. “Wasn't he, Riggs?”
“He was,” said Mr Riggs loudly, as if expecting someone to dispute it.
“Will you go to your room at once, Mrs Brood?” asked Mrs Desmond.