Clydesdale got onto his feet.
"Won't you stay?"
"No."
"As you wish. And—I'm sorry, Desboro. However, you have a better chance than I—to make good. My wife—dislikes me."
He went as far as the door with his guest, and when Desboro had departed he wandered aimlessly back into the house and ultimately found himself among his porcelains once more—his only refuge from a grief and care that never ceased, never even for a moment eased those massive shoulders of their dreadful weight.
From where he stood, he heard the doorbell sounding distantly. Doubtless his wife had returned. Doubtless, too, as long as there was no guest, Elena would prefer to lunch alone in her own quarters, unless she had an engagement to lunch at the Ritz or elsewhere.
He had no illusion that she desired to see him, or that she cared whether or not he inquired what her physician had said; but he closed and locked his glass cases once more and walked heavily into the main body of the house and descended to the door.
To the man on duty there he said: "Did Mrs. Clydesdale come in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you."