“I wish he would get started. There are plenty of times when I think we’re all talking balderdash and it would be a relief to hear some one give testimony against us. What is the matter with women, Mr. Flandon?”
Gage’s tired, half-haunted eyes looked at her as if he suspected mockery but he found none.
“According to most belief, there is nothing the matter with them. They are supremely successful. They’ve got what they wanted. If they don’t like the taste of their little mess of pottage as they eat it, it will be unfortunate.”
“You don’t think they will like it?”
“I may be mistaken. It may suit their taste.”
“I’m afraid it won’t but it’s the best food we’re able to provide so far. Perhaps we’ve overpaid for it.”
“You have.”
He stopped, abruptly conscious of being drawn into discussion in public. Margaret and Helen had been listening to the brief dialogue, and he stiffened to the sense of their presence.
“I can’t stay, Helen—I’ve an appointment. Is there anything I can do?”
She walked with him to the end of the room, impelled by a desire to preserve what she could of appearances but more by an unexpected pain at having him leave her. She did not want him to stay—she was clear about that, but she hated to have him go away in that lonely fashion. The gentleness that welled up only lasted for a moment. He was ugly still. She could tell by the set of his lips. It brought back her terribly painful memories.