Hildreth. The change from promptitude and ease
To absence, fear, perplexity in all
He does.
St. J. Unjust! Consideration, care,
An artist's terror; but mastery of his work.
Hildreth. Pardon, my lord. I love him, and I know.
The definite purpose, the consummate skill
That made his management a royal game
Have left him; and he stumbles to the goal,
Which once he reached unerring and direct
As wireless news or planetary light.
St. J. Fine of you, Hildreth! But I think the play
Replies for all Sir Tristram's hesitance.
Hildreth. Partly, my lord: the play is difficult.
St. J. Where is he now?
Hildreth. None of us know, my lord.
I dread mischance.
St. J. On what conjecture, Hildreth?
Hildreth. The vaguest: at his house, no word of him;
And at his club, no word.
St. J. That means no more
Than this: he was not home nor at his club.