“Oh, the awful misery of it all,” said Goddard between his teeth.
“I am sorry,” said Lady Phayre in a low voice, “sorry to my inmost heart; but I am sorrier for you.”
“Ah! you mustn’t say that,” cried Goddard passionately. “Think—you couldn’t mean it. It would be inhuman!”
“It is only too human,” murmured Lady Phayre.
He was about to speak, when the maid-servant announced that the supper was ready; so, instead of replying to Lady Phayre’s murmur, he remained silently wondering.
She led the way into the dining-room, where a dainty but substantial meal was spread—a piece of salmon with crisp salad, a truffled pie, a cold fruit-tart. Only one place was laid. It had seemed to Lady Phayre she could give him kinder welcome if she sat by him as he ate than if she went through the formal pretence of joining him at the meal. Then she wondered, in the feminine way, whether he was cognisant of it. The servant uncorked the champagne and retired. Lady Phayre sat down near him, resting her elbow on the table. At first he leaned back in his chair, looked at his plate, then at her.
“I feel too sick at heart to eat. The thought of those poor starving women and children!”
“Your going without food will not fill their mouths, you know,” said Lady Phayre in sympathetic remonstrance.
“I suppose I feel my own personal humiliation too,” he said ungraciously, as if forcing out the admission. “One may as well be honest. It’s the biggest thing I’ve set my hand to as yet, with everything depending upon it. And to have to throw it up when victory was staring one in the face! It is maddening!”
He bent forward impatiently and took up his fork. He laid it on his plate, and turned to Lady Phayre.