Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a great sigh of supreme relief.
“In my wife’s name, sir, I should like to thank you. But she shall thank you herself for what you have done for me.”
“What I have done for you, O’Moy?” Wellington’s slight figure stiffened perceptibly, his face and glance were cold and haughty. “You mistake, I think, or else you did not hear. What I have done, I have done solely upon grounds of political expediency. I had no choice in the matter, and it was not to favour you, or out of disregard for my duty, as you seem to imagine, that I acted as I did.”
O’Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped and unclasped his hands a moment in his desperate anguish.
“I understand,” he muttered in a broken voice, “I—I beg your pardon, sir.”
And then Wellington’s slender, firm fingers took him by the arm.
“But I am glad, O’Moy, that I had no choice,” he added more gently. “As a man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as Commander-in-Chief placed me under the necessity of acting as I have done.”
Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and wrung it fiercely, obeying an overmastering impulse.
“Thank you,” he cried. “Thank you for that!”
“Tush!” said Wellington, and then abruptly: “What are you going to do, O’Moy?” he asked.