That drew him.
"You had your right," he said. "You are your father's daughter."
He brooded somberly.
"It was not," he said, "what I had expected—that meager following. Who were there? Not two—not three—and there should have been an army of us."
He squared himself and faced the invisible as if he led the van.
That and his attitude drew Burton down on to him.
"Was there ever an army," he asked dangerously, "of 'us'?"
Wrackham looked at Burton (it was the first time he'd taken the smallest notice of him) with distinct approval, as if the young man had suddenly shown more ability than he had given him credit for. But you don't suppose he'd seen the irony in him. Not he!
"You're right," he said. "Very right. All the same, there ought to have been more there besides Myself."
There was a perfectly horrible silence, and then Antigone's voice came through it, pure and fine and rather slow.