"That's your imagination, my dear. What is the matter is that I've got a touch of headache--one of my mother's headaches; you remember what I've told you about the headaches she used to have. I fancy the sun was stronger than I thought."
"I didn't notice it; you said nothing about it."
"No; I didn't notice it at the time. I expect that what I want is my supper; it'll be better after I've had something to eat."
"Have you found your letter-case?"
"Oh yes, yes; I've found my letter-case; I must have dropped it out of my pocket as I was putting on my coat--very stupid of me; but I've found it all right. Anyhow there wasn't anything in it of very great consequence, so it wouldn't have mattered much if I hadn't."
It was a curious meal, that supper of theirs. It was as if ghosts sat with them at the table; phantoms of horror; one by his side, and one at hers, whose presence each hoped was hidden from the other. Conversation languished, and they were in general so talkative; the efforts they made to disguise their incapacity for speech were pathetic. Their appetites were as poor as their talking powers, and that although each had professed to be ready to make an excellent meal. He ate little, and what he did eat was with an obvious effort; she ate still less, each mouthful seemed to choke her. When the make-believe repast was at an end Mr. Nash got up.
"I'm afraid my headache isn't much better; I think I'll go for a turn on the front; the night air may do it good."
She also rose.
"It won't take me a minute to put on my hat; I'll come with you."
He was not so pleased at her suggestion as he might have been.