made a feast of his crumbs in the tent, but could not now smile at the prospect of pheasant and champagne. He did not even look at her, but sat smoking a cigarette and staring at a corner of the table, his head a little bent, his shoulders hunched in an attitude of profound dejection.
Mac handed her a luscious plate of the best portions of a bird with potatoes and little onions, and Michael poured her out a glass of wine.
“Go ahead, eat,” commanded Mac.
Then Dane looked at her, a faint glimmer of interest appearing at the back of his desperate eyes. He raised his glass to her and drank deeply.
She began to eat, for she was hungry, and she meant to pay Mac the compliment of enjoying his meal. “This is grand. I love pheasant high like this. Is there much game up this way?”
“Yes, about Kaihu. Can you shoot?”
“At a target, yes. But I don’t like killing anything except rats.”
Mac handed a plate to Dane and filled his own and began to gobble audibly. Then he looked at the other man who made no attempt to eat.
“Cheer up, D. B.,” he said gruffly. “Heard of the accident?” He turned to Valerie.
“No. What is it?” Her eyes widened, and she looked from him to Dane.
“Duffield. Englishman. They brought him down from Townshend’s mill an hour ago. Back broken.” Mac said it as laconically as he would have said “He’s got a cold.”
Valerie put down her knife and fork while something caught her throat. “How rotten!” she exploded.
“Yes.” Mac went on with his mouth full of food. “Bloody hard luck. Good sport. He’s done.”
