“M’yes. I rather think I did.”
“Oh, Bernard! What did she say?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Let’s go in directly,” said Angela, in high excitement.
On the balcony they passed Lal; but Lal’s face was never the index of his feelings, and it baffled curiosity. From the threshold Angela looked round for Dolly, to discover that, whatever had happened a minute ago, Dolly was not thinking of it now. She stood, one of a group surrounding Norman Merton, who had the evening paper and was reading aloud from it. Pretty little Mrs. Merton was very grave, her eyes soft with pity and distress; Maud Prideaux looked horrified. Dolly’s face Angela could not decipher; it was held by some thought more powerful than pity or horror.
“‘... Had the explosion taken place five minutes earlier the carnage must have been frightful, and many families deprived of their breadwinners. As it is, we regret to announce the death of Mr. Lucian de Saumarez, the well-known author, who was a partner in the business, and of the manager, Mr. Smith Charlesworth. Both were standing too close to the scene of destruction to be able to escape. It is feared that the bodies, which are buried under a huge accumulation of débris, will never be recovered. Much sympathy is felt for Mr. Farquhar, who has been deprived at one blow of his friend and his fortune—’”
“Is Mr. Farquhar hurt?”
Dolly spoke out, careless who might hear.
“No, Miss Fane, Farquhar’s perfectly safe.”
“Not hurt! How did it happen?”