He went to the sofa, behind which, on a table, an electric light was burning, sat down and tore the envelope which he held. Charmian and Alston remained at the supper-table. Charmian had sat down again. She gazed at Claude, and saw him draw out of the envelope not a note, but a letter. He began to read it, and read it slowly. And as he did so Charmian saw his face change. Once or twice his jaw quivered. His brows came down. He turned sideways on the sofa. Very soon she saw that he was with difficulty controlling some strong emotion. She began to talk to Alston Lake and turned her eyes away from her husband. But presently she heard the rustle of paper and looked again. Claude, with a hand which slightly trembled, was putting the letter back into its envelope. When he had done so he put both into the breast-pocket of his evening coat, and sat quite still gazing on the ground. Charmian went on talking, but she did not know what she was saying, and at last she felt that she could not endure to sit any longer at the disordered supper-table. Movement seemed necessary to her body, which felt distressed. "Do have some more champagne, Alston!" she said. "Not another drop, Mrs. Charmian, thank, you! I must think of my voice." "Well, then--" She pushed back her chair, glanced at Claude. He moved, lifted his eyes. "Dare you smoke, Alston?" he said. "I've got to, whether I dare or not. But"--his kind and honest eyes went from Charmian to Claude--"I think, if you don't mind, I'll smoke on the way home. I'll go right away now if you won't think it unfriendly. The fact is I'm a bit tired, and I bet you both are, too. These things take it out of one, unless one is made of cast-iron like Crayford, or steel like Mulworth, or whipcord like Jimber. You must both want a good long rest after all you've been through over here in God's own country, eh?" He fetched his coat from the lobby. Claude got up and gave him a cigar, lit it for him. "Well, Mrs. Charmian--" he said. He held out his big hand. His fair face flushed a little, and his rather blunt features looked boyish and emotional. "We've brought it off. We've done our best. Now we can only leave it to the critics and the public." He squeezed her hand so hard that all the blood seemed to leave it. "Good-night! I'll come round to-morrow. Good-night." He seemed reluctant to depart, still held her hand. But at last he just repeated "Good-night!" and let it go. "Good-night, dear Alston," she murmured.