"Delay?" Stafford repeated dully, looking from one to the other.
Travers, who had joined them a moment before, laughed with sincerity.
"My good fellow—surely you have not forgotten?" he said. "You promised to fetch Miss Caruthers for the tournament."
"Ah, the tournament!" Stafford passed his hand quickly across his forehead like a man who has been awakened roughly from a dream. "Of course—the tournament. I am awfully sorry—" He turned to Lois with a curious, awkward gesture. "—I'm afraid I can't come. I—I am not very fit—in fact—" He hesitated and then stopped altogether, looking past her with his brows knitted, his lips compressed as though in an effort to keep back an exclamation of pain.
"You look out of sorts," Travers agreed sympathetically. "Come and take my chair. I'll look after Miss Caruthers—if she will let me."
Lois shook her head. She was watching Stafford's ashy face and there was a pity in her eyes which was deepening every instant to tenderness. All suffering awoke in her an instant response, and this man was dear to her—how dear she only realized now that the lines of pain were on his forehead.
"You are not to bother," she said gently, but with an unmistakable decision. "I can manage quite well by myself. I shall start as soon as I have given Captain Stafford a cup of tea. Sit down—it will do you good."
Stafford made an abrupt gesture of refusal. The movement was almost violent, as though for an instant he had lost hold over himself. Then he pulled himself together, looking her full and steadily in the face.
"It is very good of you," he said, "but indeed I can not wait. I have only come to break a piece of news to you. As—my best friends here, I thought it only right that you should be told first."
Travers rose with a mock alacrity.