Lady Barbara gripped the edge of the mantel-piece to keep control of herself.
"Perhaps I thought I might get a little sympathy," she answered.
Jack lay back in his chair, pushing away his wine-glass and reaching for his coffee-cup. He chose a cigar and pierced it; and every act in its deliberation and absorbed care for his own comfort set her on fire to ruffle his exasperating composure.
"I should have thought the others had a prior claim on any sympathy that's going about."
"I'm afraid no amount of sympathy will bring the dead back to life," she answered in a whisper.
"I wasn't thinking of her. But the others did at least stand their ground."
"You mean I deserted my friends?" she demanded furiously.
"Well, of course you did,—if they are your friends. It wasn't your fault, but it wasn't theirs, either. Because your own record of inquests doesn't court enquiry, you're allowed to cut and run."
"I couldn't have done any good by staying."
He made no answer until he had found matches and lighted his cigar. It was evidently important that the coffee and brandy and tobacco should march abreast; evidently science and art went to the skilled lighting of a cigar; a man—or at least Jack Waring—could not be expected to attend to other people's troubles until he had made sure of his own comfort.