“Anyhow, Oliver, do you think John is taking a wise step?” Herold hastily interposed.
“I do,” said he; “a very wise step.”
“I don't agree with you at all,” said Lady Blount, with a snap of finality.
“Your remark, my dear,” replied Sir Oliver, “does not impress me in the least. When did you ever agree with me?”
“Never, my dear Oliver,” said Lady Blount, with the facial smile of the secretly hostile fencer. “And I thank Heaven for it. I may not be a brilliant woman, but I am endowed with common sense.”
Sir Oliver looked at her for a moment, with lips parted, as if to speak; but finding nothing epigrammatic enough to say—and an epigram alone would have saved the situation—he planted a carefully cut cigar between the parted lips aforesaid, and deliberately struck a match.
“Your idea, John,” said Lady Blount, aware of victory, “is preposterous. What would Stella do without you?”
“Yes,” said Sir Oliver, after lighting his cigar; “Stella has to be considered before everything.”
Risca frowned on the unblushing turncoat. Stella! Stella! Everything was Stella. Here were three ordinary, sane, grown-up people seriously putting forward the proposition that he had no right to go and mend his own broken life in his own fashion because he happened to be the favored playmate of a little invalid girl!
On the one side was the driving force of Furies of a myriad hell-power, and on the other the disappointment of Stella Blount. It was ludicrous. Even Walter Herold, who had a sense of humour, did not see the grotesque incongruity. Risca frowned upon each in turn—upon three serene faces smilingly aware of the absurd. Was it worth while trying to convince them?