It had been with him at Stephen's death, it was with him far more intensely
now. He looked at Bobby.
"She's gone," in a tired, dull voice as of some one nearly asleep, "gone to
Cardillac. I loved Cards--and all the time he loved Clare. I loved Clare
and all the time she loved Cards. It's damned funny isn't it, Bobby, old
man?"
He stood facing him in the hall, no part of him moving except his mouth.
"She says I treated her like a brute. I don't think I did. She says there
was something I did one night--I don't know. I've never done anything--I've
never been with another woman--something about a cab--Perhaps it was poor
Rose Bennett. Poor Rose Bennett--damned unhappy--so am I--so am I. I'm a
lonely fellow--I always have been!"
He went past Bobby, back into the little drawing-room. Bobby followed him.
He turned round.
"You can go now, Bobby. I shan't want you any more."
"No, I'm going to stay."
"I don't want you--I don't want any one."
"I'm going to stay."
"I'd rather you went, please."
"I'm going to stay."
Peter paid no more attention. He went and sat down on a chair by the
window. Bobby sat down on a chair near him.
Once Peter said: "They took my baby. They took my work. They've taken my
wife. They're too much for me. I'm beaten."
Then there was absolute silence in the house. The servants, who had heard
the tumbling of the furniture, crept, frightened to bed.
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