“Thank you very much. I am sure they would like to come.”
Soon afterwards the two young men adjourned to the billiard-room, while Mr. Stamford went to his sofa, exhausted by one of his painful and tedious days which became more frequent as time went on, and Mrs. Stamford played with determination certain hard pieces on the piano to distract the invalid, not because they gave her the slightest pleasure, but because it was the duty of a wife to play music to her sick husband if she knew how.
Through a series of open doors the sound of correct and metallic “runs” penetrated even to the billiard-room, and caused Dick Stamford to remark irreverently—
“There’s the mater giving the poor old dad piano exercise again. She does believe in keeping things going.”
He was walking to a little table containing whisky and soda and cigars as he said this, and he raised the whisky decanter, tilted it over the glass, then paused an irresolute second and put it down with the remark—
“She’s a good sort, is the mater, all the same.”
Andy turned away his head and answered casually—
“Anybody can tell that.”
But his whole being was filled with a sudden rush of pity and comprehension and an intense desire to help. He felt he could go on for ever walking interminable miles round that billiard-table if it could do any good. He wanted, almost more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, to do something which should strengthen this weak man for the fight against such a tremendous enemy. Every instinct of backing the weak against the strong which had grown with him from boyhood, became focused and alert. But he could only say, after all—
“I’m sorry I can’t play billiards to-night. I’ve hurt my arm.”