Feeling that all eyes were fixed
upon him, Glazzard made an uneasy movement, and rose from his chair.
"It doesn't astonish you?" said Quarrier, with a broad grin.
"Not overpoweringly."
"Then let us regard the thing as settled. Mr. Liversedge has no
stomach for the fight, and makes room for me. In a week's time I
shall be a man of distinction."
In the midst of his self-banter he found Glazzard's gaze turned upon
him with steady concentration. Their eyes met, and Denzil's
expression became graver.
"You will take up your abode here?" Glazzard asked.
"Shortly," was the reply, given with more emphasis than seemed
necessary, and accompanied with an earnest look.
Again there was silence, and before the conversation could be
renewed there came a summons to supper.
A vivacious political dialogue between Mr. Liversedge and his
relative allowed Glazzard to keep silence, save when he exchanged a
few words with his hostess or Miss Pope. He had a look of extreme
weariness; his eyes were heavy and without expression, the lines of
face slack, sullen; he seemed to maintain with difficulty his
upright position at the table, and his eating was only pretence. At
the close of the meal he bent towards Mrs. Liversedge, declared that
he was suffering from an intolerable headache, and begged her to
permit his immediate departure.
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