Cecilia stretched her hands out towards Martin, and there was a faint tinkling as of chains.
“You must know, dear,” she said, “how anxious we've all been. Of course, your uncle doesn't mean that.”
The same scornful tenderness with which he was wont to look at Thyme passed into Martin's face.
“All right, Aunt Cis,” he said; “if Stephen doesn't mean it, he ought to. To mean things is what matters.” He stooped and kissed her forehead. “Give that to Thyme for me,” he said. “I shan't see her for a bit.”
“You'll never see her, sir,” said Stephen dryly, “if I can help it! The liquor of your Sanitism is too bright and effervescent.”
Martin's smile broadened. “For old bottles,” he said, and with another slow look round went out.
Stephen's mouth assumed its driest twist. “Bumptious young devil!” he said. “If that is the new young man, defend us!”
Over the cool dining-room, with its faint scent of pinks, of melon, and of ham, came silence. Suddenly Cecilia glided from the room. Her light footsteps were heard hurrying, now that she was not visible, up to Thyme.
Hilary, too, had moved towards the door. In spite of his preoccupation, Stephen could not help noticing how very worn his brother looked.
“You look quite seedy, old boy,” he said. “Will you have some brandy?”