"Dare you smoke, Alston?" he said.
"I've got to, whether I dare or not. But"—his kind and honest eyes went from Charmian to Claude—"I think, if you don't mind, I'll smoke on the way home. I'll go right away now if you won't think it unfriendly. The fact is I'm a bit tired, and I bet you both are, too. These things take it out of one, unless one is made of cast-iron like Crayford, or steel like Mulworth, or whipcord like Jimber. You must both want a good long rest after all you've been through over here in God's own country, eh?"
He fetched his coat from the lobby. Claude got up and gave him a cigar, lit it for him.
"Well, Mrs. Charmian—" he said.
He held out his big hand. His fair face flushed a little, and his rather blunt features looked boyish and emotional.
"We've brought it off. We've done our best. Now we can only leave it to the critics and the public."
He squeezed her hand so hard that all the blood seemed to leave it.
"Good-night! I'll come round to-morrow. Good-night."
He seemed reluctant to depart, still held her hand. But at last he just repeated "Good-night!" and let it go.
"Good-night, dear Alston," she murmured.