'Very well. But there's something else. I don't ask you to see anything of Sibyl, or to let your wife see her; it will be much better not. I don't know whether she will stay here, or in London at all; but she will see as few people as possible. Don't think it necessary to write to her; don't let your wife write. If we all live through it—and come out again on the other side—things may be all right again; but I don't look forward to anything. All I can think of now is that I've killed a man who was a good friend to me, and have darkened all the rest of Sibyl's life. And I only wish someone had knocked my brains out ten years ago, when nobody would have missed such a blackguard and ruffian.'
'Is it on your wife's account, or on ours that you want us to keep apart?' asked Rolfe gravely.
'Both, my dear fellow,' was the equally grave reply. 'I'm saying only what I mean; it's no time for humbug now. Think it over, and you'll see I'm right.'
'Alma won't see any one just yet awhile,' said Harvey. 'She has made herself ill, of course.'
'Ill? How?'
'The concert, and the frenzy that went before it.'
'The concert——.' Carnaby touched his forehead. 'I remember. If I were you, Rolfe——'
'Well?'
'I don't want to take advantage of my position and be impertinent but do you think that kind of thing will do her any good in the end?'
'It's going to stop,' replied Harvey, with a meaning nod.