Max set his teeth; a cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and he held his knife and fork as if they were the handles to which he must cling to save himself from falling.
He was suspended between two horrors, two ideas troubling him. Would his host see his state, and should he be obliged to leave the table?
And all the while the conversation went on between father and son, and he had to reply to questions put to him. Then, as the table rose and heaved, and the room began to swing gently round, a fierce-looking eye seemed to be glancing at him out of a mist, and he knew that the butler was watching him in an angry, scornful manner that made him shrink.
He had some recollection afterwards of the dinner ending, and of their going into a handsome drawing-room, where The Mackhai left them, as Kenneth said, to go and smoke in his own room. Then Max remembered something about a game of chess, and then of starting up and oversetting the table, with the pieces rattling on the floor.
“What—what—what’s the matter?” he exclaimed as he clapped his hand to his leg, which was tingling with pain.
“What’s the matter? why, you were asleep again. Never did see such a sleepy fellow. Here, let’s go to bed.”
“I beg your pardon; I’m very sorry, but I was travelling all last night.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Kenneth, yawning. “Come along.”
“We must say good-night to your father.”
“Oh no! he won’t like to be disturbed. He’s in some trouble. I think it’s about money he has been losing, and it makes him cross.”