While he was rolling the Sisyphus stone of conversation uphill for the sixth or seventh time, Jack noticed a gentleman pass by and throw a more than ordinarily interesting glance their way. He was a very well-built, fairly good-sized man of thirty-five or forty years, with a handsome, uninteresting face and heavy, sleepy dark eyes.
“Who is that?” he asked of his companion, his curiosity supplementing his wish that she would begin to bear her share of the burden of her entertainment.
“Don’t you know?” she said in surprise. “That’s Mr. Holloway. He’s just come. Oh, he’s so horrid! I think he’s just too awfully horrid for any use.”
“Why?”
“Because he does such mean things. I just know Bob must have told you how he treated me. Bob’s always telling it. Surely he’s told you. It’s his favorite story.”
“No, never,” said Jack (his eyes riveted on the staircase); “he never told me. But do tell me. I’ll enjoy hearing your side of it.”
“But I haven’t any side. It’s just Horace Holloway’s meanness. There’s nothing funny.”
“But tell me anyway.”
“Do you really want to hear?”
“Indeed, I do.”