As Harvey whispered the words, a waiter drew near with the luncheon. It was arranged upon the table, but lay there disregarded. Alma took up the newspaper again. In a moment she leaned towards her husband.
'What did you think?'
'Nothing—don't talk about it.'
Two glasses of wine had been poured out; Harvey took his and drank it off.
'It's a pity I saw this,' he said; 'it has shaken your nerves. I ought to have kept it to myself.'
Alma dipped a spoon in the soup before her, and tried to swallow. Her hand did not tremble; the worst had come and gone in a few seconds; but her palate refused food. She drank wine, and presently became so collected, so quiet, that she wondered at herself. Cyrus Redgrave was dead—dead!—the word kept echoing in her mind. As soon as she understood and believed the fact of Redgrave's death, it became the realisation of a hope which she had entertained without knowing it. Only by a great effort could she assume the look of natural concern; had she been in solitude, her face would have relaxed like that of one who is suddenly relieved from physical torment. She gave no thought to wider consequences: she saw the event only as it affected herself in her relations with the dead man. She had feared him; she had feared herself; now all danger was at an end. Now—now she could find courage to front the crowd of people and play to them. Her conscience ceased from troubling; the hope of triumph no longer linked itself with dread of a fatal indebtedness. No touch of sorrow entered into her mood; no anxiety on behalf of the man whose act had freed her. He, her husband's friend, would keep the only secret which could now injure her. Cyrus Redgrave was dead, and to her it meant a renewal of life.
Harvey was speaking; he reminded her of the necessity of taking food.
'Yes, I am going to eat something.'
'Look here, Alma,'—he regarded her sternly,—'if you have any fear, if you are unequal to this, let me go and make an excuse for you.'
'I have not the least fear. Don't try to make me nervous.'