Loder raised his head. “You must explain,” he said, abruptly.
Chilcote started slightly at the sudden demand.
“I—I suppose I'm rather irrelevant,” he said, quickly. “Fact is, there's a reception at the Bramfells' to-night. You know Blanche Bramfell—Viscountess Bramfell, sister to Lillian Astrupp.” His words conveyed nothing to Loder, but he did not consider that. All explanations were irksome to him and he invariably chafed to be done with them.
“And you've got to put in an appearance—for party reasons?” Loder broke in.
Chilcote showed relief. “Yes. Old Fraide makes rather a point of it—so does Eve.” He said the last words carelessly; then, as if their sound recalled something, his expression changed. A touch of satirical amusement touched his lips and he laughed.
“By-the-way, Loder,” he said, “my wife was actually tolerant of me for nine or ten days after my return. I thought your representation was to be quite impersonal? I'm not jealous,” he laughed. “I'm not jealous, I assure you; but the burned child shouldn't grow absentminded.”
At his tone and his laugh Loder's blood stirred; with a sudden, unexpected impulse his hand tightened on the banister, and, looking up, he caught sight of the face above him—his own face, it seemed, alight with malicious interest. At the sight a strange sensation seized him; his grip on the banister loosened, and, pushing past Chilcote, he hurriedly mounted the stairs.
Outside his own door the other overtook him.
“Loder!” he said. “Loder! I meant no harm. A man must have a laugh sometimes.”
But Loder was facing the door and did not turn round.