“He was just an acquaintance for the voyage,” she told us; “though, of course, it was rather a shock when he was arrested at Queenstown.”
“Oh, what a surprise!” exclaimed Charlie Pryce jovially.
“A surprise?” She seemed to me to start ever so little. “Oh yes, of course—terrible!” she went on the next instant.
“Was he nice?” asked our hostess.
“Yes, he was very—very attractive,” she answered. And somehow I fancy her glance rested for a moment on her husband—indeed on a particular portion of him. Charlie was just lighting the after-lunch cigarette. Charlie’s hands—he is a very good fellow and well off—are decidedly red and particularly podgy.
II
I LIKED Mrs Pryce very much. She was pretty, dainty, bright, and—well, bachelors are so apt to think that pretty married women have a dull time at home that I will lay no stress on my own private opinion as to her domestic lot. Enough that I was always glad to talk with her, and that it was pleasant to walk with her in the Major’s quiet old garden on a fine night when the wind stirred the boughs and the moon shone. Inside they had taken to pool—and whisky-and-soda. I play the former badly, and take the latter when the evening is more advanced.
“Beautiful moon!” I observed, enjoying Nature, my company, and my cigar.
She was silent a moment. Then she said: “It shone just like that the third night out from New York.”
“Your last trip?” She crosses pretty often, as Charlie has business connections on the other side.