“Yes,” Crespin said gravely, “she’s game—always was.”
“She reminds me,” the other told him, “of the women in the French Revolution. We might all be in the Conciergerie, waiting to hear the tumbrils.”
“It would be more endurable if we were,” Major Crespin muttered huskily—“were in prison. It’s this appearance of freedom—the scoundrel’s damned airs of politeness and hospitality—that makes the thing such a nightmare.” Mechanically he took up the tantalus again, and quite mechanically mixed himself another whiskey and soda. “Do you believe we’re really awake, Traherne? If I were alone, I’d think the whole thing a nightmare; but you and Lucilla seem to be dreaming it too.” His voice husked again as he said it, and he raised the glass quickly. But again he remembered when it was just at his lips, and crashed the glass down. “Damn it!” The cut glass was thick, and it did not break.
“Some day,” Dr. Traherne said wistfully, “we may look back upon it as on a bad dream.”
Crespin shook his head moodily. “He does you well, curse him,” he cried. “They served me a most dainty chota hazri this morning, and with it a glass of rare old fine champagne.”
“Yes,” Traherne commented, “the Orientals know how to refine cruelty to the nth degree, when they choose. Where does that door lead?” he asked, pointing.
“To a billiard-room. Billiards!” Crespin laughed—and at the laugh’s quality the physician looked at him anxiously.
“And this one?” he went on, in a moment, again pointing.
Crespin shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s locked—and a very solid door, too.”
“Do you know what I think?” Traherne drew a step nearer, and spoke low.