“No, thank you.”
“Some more chicken, then?”
“No more chicken.”
“Will nothing tempt you?”
“I will take some more wine, if you will allow me.”
He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and emptied it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet’s bright eyes watched him with sardonic attention; Lady Janet’s ready tongue spoke out as freely as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.
“The air of Kensington doesn’t seem to suit you, my young friend,” she said. “The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your glass and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man. When you first came here you arrived invalided by a wound. In your place, I should not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other object in view than describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes differ. Are you ill? Does your wound still plague you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you out of spirits?”
Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and answered: