Andy tried to speak, but no words would come from his dry throat. The room became misty for a second, then it cleared, and Stamford was saying, with no air of the triumphant lover—
“I dined with the Attertons, and after dinner old Atterton told me I’d been a good boy, and I might try my luck. And the old girl sent for me to her room, where she was nursing that blessed back of hers, and she cried, and said she hoped Elizabeth would have me. So when they told me to go down into the morning-room where Elizabeth was—what could I do? After that—what could I do? I couldn’t say I must wait until I’d thought it over, when they’d been thinking it over for a year. And I couldn’t say anything about you—now, could I?”
Andy shook his head.
“I suppose not,” he said with some difficulty.
“I’m beastly sorry. I never felt in such a hole in my life. I’d have given anything—anything, to be out of it and safe at home. I never meant to steal a march on you, Deane.”
“I know that,” said Andy heavily.
Then Stamford sat down.
“I was in a d——d hole,” he repeated. “I never meant to behave like a skunk. I was going to suggest that we should both write to her on the first of October, and let the devil take the hindmost. You believe that, Deane?”
“Yes,” said Andy.
Then they both stared at the empty grate, and at last Stamford got up.