"It is Wingrave," Aynesworth declared. "Come and speak to him!"
They descended the stairs together. Outside, Wingrave was leaning back
in the corner of an electric brougham, reading the paper. Aynesworth
put his head in at the window.
"You remember Lovell, Mr. Wingrave?" he said. "We were just talking
when your message came up. I've brought him down to shake hands with
you."
Wingrave folded his paper down at the precise place where he had been
reading and extended a very limp hand. His manner betrayed not the
slightest interest or pleasure.
"How are you, Lovell?" he asked. "Some time since we met!"
"A good many years," Lovell answered.
"Finished your campaigning?" Wingrave inquired. "Knocked you about a
bit, haven't they?"
"They very nearly finished me," Lovell admitted. "I shall pick up all
right over here, though."
There was a moment's silence. Lovell's thoughts had flashed backwards
through the years, back to the time when he had sat within a few feet
of this man in the crowded court of justice and listened through the
painful stillness of that heavy atmosphere, charged with tragedy, to
the slow unfolding of the drama of his life. There had been passion
enough then in his voice and blazing in his eyes, emotion enough in
his twitching features and restless gestures to speak of the fire
below. And now, pale and cold, the man who had gripped his fingers
then and held on to them like a vise, seemed to find nothing except a
slight boredom in this unexpected meeting.
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