Later on Frederic made his announcement to the old men. In the fever of an excitement that caused him to forget that Lydia might be entitled to some voice in the matter, he deliberately committed her to the project that had become a fixed thing in his mind the instant he set foot in the house and found it empty--oh, so empty! Jones's practised hand shook slightly as he poured the wine. The old men drank rather noisily. They, too, were excited. Mr Riggs smacked his lips and squinted at the chandelier, as if trying to decide upon the vintage, but in reality doing his best to keep from coughing up the wine that had gone the wrong way in a moment of profound paralysis. “The best news I've heard since Judas died,” said Mr Dawes manfully. “Fill 'em up again, Jones. I want to propose the health of Mrs Brood.” “The future Mrs Brood,” hissed Mr Riggs wheezily, glaring at his comrade. “Ass!” “I'm not married yet, Mr Dawes,” explained Frederic, grinning. “Makes no difference,” said Mr Dawes stoutly. “Far as I'm concerned, you are. We'll be the first to drink to Lydia Brood! The first to call her by that name, gentlemen. God bless her!” “God bless her!” shouted Mr Riggs. “God bless her!” echoed Frederic, and they drained their glasses to Lydia Brood. “Jones, open another bottle,” commanded Mr Dawes loftily. Frederic shook his head, and two faces fell. Right bravely, however, the old men maintained a joyous interest in the occasion. They expounded loudly upon the virtues and graces of John Desmond's daughter; they plied the young man with questions and harangued him with advice; they threatened him with hell-fire if he ever gave the girl a minute of unhappiness; they were very firm in their contention that he “oughtn't to let the grass grow under his feet,” not for an instant! In the end they waxed tearful. It was quite too much joy to be borne with equanimity. The young man turned moody, thoughtful; the unwonted exhilaration died as suddenly as it had come into existence. A shadow crossed his vision and he followed it with his thoughts. The gabbling of the old men irritated him as the makeshift feast of celebration grew old, and he made no pretence of keeping up his end of the conversation. The gloomy, uneasy look deepened in his face. It was a farce, after all, this attempt to glorify an impulse conceived in desperation. A sense of utter loneliness came over him with a swiftness that sickened, nauseated him. The food was flat to his taste; he could not eat. Self-commiseration stifled him. He suddenly realised that he had never been so lonely, so unhappy, in all his life as he was at this moment.