Travers, who had joined them a moment before, laughed with sincerity.
"My good fellow--surely you have not forgotten?" he said. "You
promised to fetch Miss Caruthers for the tournament."
"Ah, the tournament!" Stafford passed his hand quickly across his
forehead like a man who has been awakened roughly from a dream. "Of
course--the tournament. I am awfully sorry--" He turned to Lois with
a curious, awkward gesture. "--I'm afraid I can't come. I--I am not
very fit--in fact--" He hesitated and then stopped altogether, looking
past her with his brows knitted, his lips compressed as though in an
effort to keep back an exclamation of pain.
"You look out of sorts," Travers agreed sympathetically. "Come and
take my chair. I'll look after Miss Caruthers--if she will let me."
Lois shook her head. She was watching Stafford's ashy face and there
was a pity in her eyes which was deepening every instant to
tenderness. All suffering awoke in her an instant response, and this
man was dear to her--how dear she only realized now that the lines of
pain were on his forehead.
"You are not to bother," she said gently, but with an unmistakable
decision. "I can manage quite well by myself. I shall start as soon as
I have given Captain Stafford a cup of tea. Sit down--it will do you
good."
Stafford made an abrupt gesture of refusal. The movement was almost
violent, as though for an instant he had lost hold over himself.
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