Rankin laughed, for he was not wholly dead to the humour of his own celebrity; but there was a faint silken rustle at the head of the table, subtle and hostile, like the stirring of a snake. Mrs. Herbert Rankin bent her fine flat brows towards the poet, with a look ominous and intent. The look was lost upon Rickman and he wondered why Maddox pressed his foot.
"Have you written anything on the war, Mr. Rickman?" she asked.
"No; I haven't written anything on the war."
She looked at him almost contemptuously as at a fool who had neglected an opportunity.
"What do you generally write on, then?"
Rickman looked up with a piteous smile. He was beginning to feel very miserable and weary, and he longed to get up and go. It seemed to him that there was no end to that dinner; no end to the pitiless ingenuity of Rankin's chef. And he always had hated being stared at.
"I don't—generally—write—on anything," he said.
"Your last poem is an exception to your rule, then?"
"It is. I wrote most of that on gin and water," said Rickman desperately.
Rankin had tugged all the geniality out of his moustache, and his face was full of anxiety and gloom. Maddox tried hard not to snigger. He was not fond of Mrs. Herbert Rankin.