Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and folded up the long strips of galley proof.
Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small talk had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, nervously active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a Country Club dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses.
Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by nothing at all—first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow.
Henry sat still.
Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long moment each held the gaze. It was war.
Cicely said now, greatly confused:—
'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.'
There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight to the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, and plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm when delivered with spirit and humour, Kitty of Coleraine.
After which he sang, Rory O'More. He had spirit and humour aplenty to-night.
The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for The Low-Back Car.