With Salett's first words Chilcote's hand again sought his
pocket, and again his eyes strayed towards the doors, but
Fraide's erect head and stiff back just in front of him held
him quiet. With an effort he pulled out his notes and
smoothed them nervously; but though his gaze was fixed on the
pages, not a line of Blessington's clear writing reached his
mind. He glanced at the face of the Speaker, then at the
faces on the Treasury Bench, then once more he leaned back in
his seat.
The man beside him saw the movement. "Funking the drydock?"
he whispered, jestingly.
"No"--Chilcote turned to him suddenly--"but I feel beastly
--have felt beastly for weeks."
The other looked at him more closely. "Anything wrong?" he
asked. It was a novel experience to be confided in by
Chilcote.
"Oh, it's the grind-the infernal grind." As he said it, it
seemed to him suddenly that his strength gave way. He forgot
his companion, his position, everything except the urgent
instinct that filled mind and body.
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