He had built for years upon his desire for physical immortality. Now the edifice that he had reared was shattered, and Stainton shook with its fall. He clutched the back of a frail chair that stood opposite Muriel's. Perceptibly he swayed.
"When?" he whispered out of dry lips. His mouth worked; his iron-grey brows fought their way to a meeting. "When?"
Her head sank lower in her hands.
"While you were at Lyons," she said. "The very day you left."
"Is that why you didn't go to the Boussingaults'?"
"I suppose so."
"You suppose?" Almost anger shot from his eyes. "Don't you know? You must know! How did this happen?"
Muriel's head nearly rested on her knees; her shoulders twitched. Her only reply was an inarticulate noise that seemed to tear itself from her breast.
"Answer me!" he demanded.
She rose and stumbled a few steps toward him. She held out her arms. Her face was like a sheet, and her eyes and mouth were like holes burnt into a sheet.