“I’ll stay here with you,” said Atterbury resolutely.
“I will send your supper in to you,” called Mrs. Harrington lightly, as she saw him draw up a chair to one of the deserted card tables near which Harrington was sitting with his eyes still closed and his head leaned back against the cushions.
He paid no attention to the dishes, but Atterbury ate and drank quickly, like the hungry man he was, though hardly knowing what he tasted, except that it was warm and good. Then he sat absently looking at the scene in the supper room where the guests were grouped around the table, the wax-lights in the candelabra illumining the women opposite him; Mrs. Harrington’s brilliant eyes and blue gown, the fair hair and scarlet draperies of pretty Mrs. Waring, the white teeth and charming smile of black-robed Mrs. Callender, and the old-rose bodice, slender neck, and dusky, drooping head that belonged to Agnes.
In spite of the festive appearance, there was manifest chill and restraint. The men, all but Callender and Nichols, who talked apart, had shifted over to seats by their wives, a position which does not require due exertion in the matter of entertainment. It is difficult to eat and drink merrily when your host is palpably waiting for your departure. Agnes’s hand shook as she held the cup of hot coffee to which she had been looking forward, and her creamed oysters were untouched while she tried to open a conversation with Mrs. Callender all about the Book Club.
“Well,” said Atterbury suddenly after a while, “what have you got to say to me, Harrington?” The other man’s manner was offensive, but Atterbury was disposed to be conciliating.
Harrington unclosed his heavy, dark-ringed eyes and gazed at him.
“What have I got to say to you?” He gave a short laugh. “Why, nothing that I know of—nothing but that I have an internal headache.” There was an extraordinary undercurrent of insolence in his manner which Atterbury was at a loss to explain.
“I am sorry to have to disturb you if you are ill,” said Atterbury in level tones, “but a word will suffice, Harrington. I know that the land is virtually sold—it was in the evening paper. How much does it bring?”