‘Ah, perhaps not. But you see Wrentham hasn’t turned up yet either, and I daresay they have been lunching together,’ rejoined Coutts with a smile, which was to her a very unpleasant one.
They had only taken their places at table, when Philip and Wrentham quietly entered. There was an agreeable murmur of satisfaction at the arrival of the gentleman in whose honour they had met, and his greeting was as cordial as if nobody were hungry on his account.
No one except Madge appeared to observe the singular alteration in his appearance. He was pale, his eyes seemed heavy like those of one wakening from sleep, and the smile with which he responded to the welcome of his friends was forced—his expression altogether unlike what she had expected it to be. His walk, too, was that of one who was carefully measuring each step. For an instant, the ugly suggestion of his brother, that he had been taking too much wine at lunch, occurred to her.
He took his seat by her side; dinner proceeded. Presently general conversation was resumed, and the cause of the temporary delay of the banquet appeared to be forgotten.
But to Madge the brilliant light of the room and the merriment around them only made that pale-faced man beside her the more unlike Philip.
‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner,’ he said in an undertone, and his voice sounded unusually feeble.
‘What is the matter, Philip? Why are you so pale?’
‘You cannot expect me to be taking leave of all my friends without feeling queer,’ he answered with an attempt to smile.
‘That is not it—you are ill.’
‘I am—a little; and don’t bother about it just now. I’ll tell you how it happened, by-and-by.’