Silence again; and Paul rose to his feet. It hurt him to leave his friend without a word. But the attitude Desmond had adopted precluded the lightest touch of sympathy, and Wyndham could not choose but admire him the more.
"By the way"—Desmond turned upon him as he went with startling abruptness—"Honor isn't in any way mixed up with all this, is she?"
Something in his look and tone made Wyndham glance at him intently before replying. "Of course she saw how things were while you were away. But she has been out very little lately; and as far as I can judge, she knows nothing about the talk that is going on now."
"Thank Heaven!" Desmond muttered into his moustache; but Paul's ear failed to catch the words.
"Won't you have a 'peg' or a cup of tea, Theo?" he asked gently.
"No, thanks."
"I think you ought to have one or the other."
"Very well, whichever you please. Only, bring it yourself, there's a good chap."
Paul's eyes rested thoughtfully upon his friend, who, absorbed in his own reflections, seemed to have forgotten his presence. Then he went slowly away, revolving the matter in his mind.
While avoiding the least shadow of false statement, Desmond had succeeded in shielding his wife from the one serious implication suggested by her conduct, or at least would have so succeeded, but for the tell-tale crash of glass upon the hearth-stone. Yet the most vivid impression left on Paul by their short interview was the look in Theo's eyes when he had asked that one abrupt question about Honor Meredith.