Mr Bethany sat down on one of the hard old wooden chairs that stood on either side of the lofty hall, and breathing rather thickly, rested his hands on his knees. ‘What’s happened?’ he inquired, looking up into the candle. ‘I forgot my glasses, old fool that I am, and can’t, my dear fellow, see you very plainly. But your voice—’
‘I think,’ said Lawford, ‘I think it’s beginning to come back.’
‘What, the whole thing! Oh no, my dear, dear man; be frank with me; not the whole thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Lawford, ‘the whole thing—very, very gradually, imperceptibly. I think even Sheila noticed. But I rather feel it than see it; that is all.... I’m cornering him.’
‘Him?’
Lawford jerked his candle as if towards some definite goal. ‘In time,’ he said.
The two faces with the candle between them seemed as it were to gain light each from the other.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘every man for himself, Lawford; it’s the only way. But what’s going to be done? We must be cautious; must think of—of the others?’
‘Oh, that,’ said Lawford; ‘she’s going to squeeze me out.’
‘You’ve—squabbled? Oh, but my dear, honest old, honest old idiot, there are scores of families here in this parish, within a stone’s throw, that squabble, wrangle, all but politely tear each other’s eyes out, every day of their earthly lives. It’s perfectly natural. Where should we poor old busybodies be else. Peace on earth we bring, and it’s mainly between husband and wife.’