"You–" he began, and halted, for the grim, set look in his companion's eyes carried undeniable conviction.
"Strike me if you like," Ainsworth observed harshly, "but come this way with me."
Britton's fist fell to his side, and he drew his whole frame rigidly erect in a sort of convulsive movement. In spite of his great strength he staggered a little, and his face was ashy-white.
He turned irresolutely back towards the entrance of the dancing salon, but Ainsworth took his arm again.
"No, this way," he urged, and led him as he would a boy.
People marked his rigid muscles and pallid skin, and murmured compassionately at the apparent stroke of illness.
"Hello, old chap!" cried one of his numerous acquaintances, shouldering up, "what's wrong? Heat too much for you? By Jove, you're in a beastly funk, and I don't wonder, for it's deuced close in here."
The lawyer waved him aside, and they went on, while all the guests began to complain of heat, and the assiduous concierge ran to open wider the French casements on the lawns.
Once or twice Ainsworth looked up at his companion. Britton's pallor and tremendous calm, so suggestive of the latent volcanic powers, alarmed the lawyer.
"How do you feel?" he whispered sympathetically.