"Then—if he says what you want him to say—he undoes everything he has done for Lankester. And," I added, "he's done for."
She hadn't seen that aspect of it, for she said: "Grevill is?"
I said he was, of course. I said we all felt that strongly; Grevill felt it himself. It would finish him.
Dear Antigone, I saw her take it. She pressed the sword into her heart. "If—if he did Papa? Is it—is it as bad as all that?"
I said we were afraid it was—for Grevill.
"And is he," she said, "afraid?"
"Not for himself," I said, and she asked me: "For whom, then?" And I said: "For Lankester." I told her that was what I'd meant when I said just now that he couldn't do them both. And, as a matter of fact, he wasn't going to do them both. He had given up one of them.
"Which?" she asked; and I said she might guess which.
But she said nothing. She sat there with her eyes fixed on me and her lips parted slightly. It struck me that she was waiting for me, in her dreadful silence, as if her life hung on what I should say.
"He has given up Lankester," I said.