"Must it be a blow to the poor dear?" Phinuit enquired.
"I hope not, very truly."
(The tell-tale now betrayed a course northwest-by-north. Had the binnacle compass, then, gone out of its head altogether, on finding itself bereft of its accustomed court of counter-attractions?)
"Well, here we all are, sitting forward on the edges of our chairs, holding onto the seats with both hands, ears pricked forward, eyes shining... The suspense," Phinuit avowed, "is something fierce!"
"I am sorry."
"What d'you mean, you're sorry? You're not going to back out?"
"Having never walked into the arrangement you propose, it would be difficult to back out--would it not?"
Monk forgot that he was suffering acutely, forgot even the beautiful and precious hand that was soothing his fevered brow, and rudely shaking it off, sat up suddenly. The eyebrows were distinctly minatory above eyes that loosed ugly gleams.
"You refuse?"
Lanyard slowly inclined his head: "I regret I must beg to be excused."