"It is very good of you," said Mr. Fogo.
"I should like to help," she explained, and followed Caleb to the
kitchen.
Somehow, with her absence, an oppressive silence fell on the three
men. Peter coughed at intervals, and once even began a sentence, but
stopped halfway. Mr. Fogo did not heed him, but had fallen to
drumming softly with his spoon upon the table. A full five minutes
passed thus, and then he started to his feet.
"Must you really be going?"
"Eh?"
"It is early yet; but I suppose you have some distance to go?"
"What?"
"Let me, at least, help you on with your coats."
They stared blankly at him. There was a faraway look in his eyes,
but his speech was quiet and distinct enough. Like lambs they
obeyed, and marched out into the hall.
"I am afraid I am too weak to offer much assistance--"
"Don't 'ee menshun et."
They resumed their coats, and groped for hats and sticks. A deep and
awful wonder possessed them both.
"The night is fine," observed their host, as he opened the door:
"you will have a pleasant journey home. _Good_-night!"
He shook them by the hand as they staggered out, shut the door upon
them, and returned pensively to the dining-room.
As the door closed behind them, the brothers looked into each other's
eyes.
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