Milbanke's usually pallid face flushed.
"You mean that for me?" he asked quietly.
Asshlin shrugged his shoulders.
"If you like," he said. "If the cap fits——" For a moment Milbanke said nothing; then once again he straightened his small, thin figure.
"Very well, Denis," he said, "I quite understand. With your permission I will say good-bye to you now, and to-morrow morning I will catch the earliest train from Muskeere."
He looked at his host steadily. Then, through the temper that still mastered him, a twinge of regret, a sense of parting and loss obtruded themselves. With all his intolerable faults, Asshlin still stood within the halo and glamour of the past.
"Denis!" he exclaimed suddenly.
But the appeal was made too late. Uncontrollable fury—the one power which could efface his sense of hospitality—possessed Asshlin. His pulses pounded; his senses were blurred. With a seething consciousness of insult and injury, he turned again upon his guest.
"You can go to hell for all I care!" he cried savagely.
For a second Milbanke continued to look at him; then without a word he turned, crossed the room, and passed into the hall.