At the very moment in the afternoon when Millie was hiding herself from a horrible world in a taxi Henry and Lady Bell-Hall were entering the Hill Street house.
The house was still and unresponsive; even Lady Bell-Hall, who was not sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and hurried upstairs. Henry hung up his coat and hat in the little room to the right of the hall and went to the library.
Herbert Spencer was there, seated at Sir Charles' table surrounded with little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright new red tape. He was making entries in a large book.
"Ah, Trenchard," he said, and went on with his entries.
Henry felt depressed. Although the day was sunny and warm the library was cold. Spencer seemed most damnably in possession, his thin nose and long thin fingers pervading everything. Henry went to his own table, took his notes out of his despatch-box and sat down. He had a sudden desire to have a violent argument with Spencer—about anything.
"I say, Spencer—you might at least ask how Sir Charles is."
Spencer carefully finished the note that he was making.
"How is he?" he asked.
Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table.
"You're a cold-blooded fish!" he broke out indignantly. "Yes you are! You've no feelings at all. If he dies the only sensation you'll have I suppose is whether you'll still keep this job or no."