“But surely . . .” began the other.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Damn your eyes, will you get out of this office before I throw you out? . . .”
Rawlings went.
§ 6
Two nights later—at the very moment when the Beasts in Gray, muttering “Grosses Malheur” as they shuffled through darkling towns, were reeling back to the Aisne before the Armies of France and a handful of Englishmen—Peter Jameson and his wife sat over their coffee in the drawing-room at Lowndes Square.
All through dinner, he had been absorbed and reticent. Now, he put down his empty cup on the little table by the side of his armchair; took a long pull at his cigar; began to speak. For a month she had watched him; speculated about him; hoped; doubted; realized his difficulties. But she had given no hint of her feelings: this was a matter for a man’s own conscience; no woman, not even his wife, possessed the right to influence him.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Yes, dear.” A little of what he must say, she knew. Her eyes kindled to the prospect of it.