“Write at once—tell Mr. Langhope he’s not fit for the place.”
“Of course” she murmured.
He went on tearing open his other letters, and glancing at their contents. She leaned back in her chair, her cup of coffee untasted, listening to the recurrent crackle of torn paper as he tossed aside one letter after another.
Presently he rose from his seat, and as she followed him from the dining-room she noticed that his breakfast had also remained untasted. He gathered up his letters and walked toward the smoking-room; and after a moment’s hesitation she joined him.
“John,” she said from the threshold.
He was just seating himself at his desk, but he turned to her with an obvious effort at kindness which made the set look of his face the more marked.
She closed the door and went up to him.
“If you write that to BIr. Langhope——Dr. Wyant will—will tell him,” she said.
“Yes—we must be prepared for that.”
She was silent, and Amherst flung himself down on the leather ottoman against the wall. She stood before him, clasping and unclasping her hands in speechless distress.
“What would you have me do?” he asked at length, almost irritably.
[ 536 ]
