"Why the devil didn't you tell me the truth?"
Lance set his lips. "Of course I wanted to. But—it was difficult. She said—not any one. Made a point of it. Not even Paul. And I was keen for her to feel quite free; no slur on her—if things fell through. So—as I couldn't warn you, I spoke to her. Perhaps I was a fool. Women are queer. You can never be sure ... and it seemed to have quite the wrong effect. Then I saw she was really losing her head over you—— Natural enough. So I simply stood by. If she really wanted you—not me, that was another affair. And it's plain ... she did."
"But when—did she make it plain?" Roy insisted, feeling more and more as if the ground were giving way under his feet.
"Just before the Gym. That ... was why...." He looked full at Roy now. His eyes darkened with pain. "I felt like murdering you that day, Roy. Afterwards ... well—one managed to carry on somehow. One always can—at a pinch ... you know."
"My God! It's the bitterest, ironical tangle!" Roy burst out with a smothered vehemence that told its own tale. "You ought to have insisted about me, Lance. I wouldn't for fifty worlds...."
"Of course you wouldn't. Don't fret, old man. And don't blame her."
"Blame or no, I can't pretend it doesn't alter things ... spoil things, badly...."
He broke off, startled by the change in Desmond. His face was drawn. He was shivering violently.
"Lance—what is it? Fever? Have you been feeling bad?"
Desmond set his lips to steady them. "On and off—at Mess. Touch of the sun, perhaps. I'll get to bed and souse myself with quinine."