He stood by the door all the time he spoke, and his colourless face and
pale eyes never altered.

"You're talking absolute nonsense," said Mrs. Wilder, preserving an
amiable tone. "We _have_ to entertain, Draycott, and you can't round on
me for what I have done for years. It has helped you on, and you know
it."

"I wasn't talking of that," he said drearily. "I was talking of you.
You're getting old, for a woman, Clarice, and when you're worried, as
you are to-day, you show it; though how an imbecile like Hartley got at
you to the extent of making you worried, I don't pretend to guess."

"Old," she said angrily. "You aren't troubling to be particularly
polite."

"No, I'm damnably truthful; just because it makes me wonder at you all
the more. You can go on smiling at any number of idiots, because you
must have the applause, I suppose. You don't even believe in it--_now_."

His allusion was definite, and Mrs. Wilder felt about in her mind for
some way to change the conversation. Quagmires are bad ground for
walking, and she was in a hurry to reach _terra firma_ again. She came
round the table and slipped her arm through his.

"After all these years. Draycott--be a little generous."

If she had fought him, some deep, hidden anger in his cold heart would
have flared up, but her gesture softened him and he patted her hand.