“Lenox,” he said. “How can I apologize?”

“You’ve had a difficult week,” said Lenox.

“I had some wild idea of helping you with the campaign, being of some-of some goddamn use in this world.”

Lenox noticed McConnell’s hand trembling slightly, whether from nerves or drink. “Thomas, you must allow yourself to grieve,” he said. “You’re not at fault.”

Dismissively, the doctor responded, “Lenox, you-”

“Thomas-you’re not at fault.”

Lenox held McConnell’s gaze until the latter looked away. “At any rate,” he said.

“How is Toto’s health?” inquired Lenox in a neutral tone.

“She’s recuperating. Jane is with her.”

“How long will she require rest?”

“She can move already, but her doctor told me that she must first calm her nerves.”

“Of course.”

“It was a fluke, he also said.”

“Of course it was, Thomas. Nobody could have predicted it.”

“Well-be that as it may.”

“Nobody could have predicted it!” said Lenox, driven to a high tone. “Has it occurred to you that Toto asked you to leave because she feels responsible, she feels as if she disappointed you, Thomas? Good Christ, for an intelligent man…”

McConnell looked chastened. “Do you think so?”

“I know it’s not because she blames you.”

“Well-thank you, Charles. Excuse me for arriving in that-in that state.”

The tension in Lenox’s face relaxed slightly. “I’m pleased to have you here. Lord knows I need help.”

“I hope I can work on your behalf.”

“I’m running against a brewer. Roodle, his name is. Apparently not well liked, but the local attitude seems to run along devil-you-know lines.”

“Have you any chance?”

“Not a week ago the men who proposed I run were optimistic. Giddily optimistic, even; but Stoke’s death has lengthened my odds considerably.”