And Rankin's chef continued to send forth his swift and fair creations.
Rickman felt his forehead grow cold and damp. He leaned back and wiped it with his handkerchief. A glance passed between Maddox and Rankin. But old Mrs. Rankin looked at him and the motherhood stirred in her heart.
"Won't you change places with me? I expect you're feeling that fire too much at your back."
Maddox plucked his sleeve. "Better stay where you are," he whispered.
Rickman rose instantly to his feet. The horrible conviction was growing on him that he was going to faint, to faint or to be ignominiously ill. That came sometimes of starving, by some irony of Nature.
"Don't Maddy—I think perhaps—"
Surely he was going to faint.
Maddox jumped up and held him as he staggered from the room.
Rankin looked at his wife and his wife looked at Rankin. "He may be a very great poet," said she, "but I hope you'll never ask him to dine here again."
"Never. I can promise you," said Rankin.