Mandelbaum quoted a German couplet to the effect that a drink in the morning has a medicinal value. Lord Charles protested, but permitted Dr Pryce to pay. Sir John and Hanson joined the party. Mast had gone off by himself. He was sick of the alternate patronage and reprobation of Sir John. He was sick of his own miserable position—to be despised by the members of the Exiles’ Club was to be despised indeed. His weak imaginative vanity pictured himself saving the situation, winning even from his enemies a frank and generous admiration. But his drink-bemused brains supplied no plan of action. He found an unfrequented corner of the garden in which to sulk and swill.
Pryce remained but a few minutes, promised Sir John that he would write if there were anything worth writing, and went on his way. And then Sir John called Hanson apart.
“You said very little at the meeting, Hanson. The modesty of the newly-elected, eh?”
“No,” said Hanson. “I had something to say, but it was not the time.”
“Too many listeners? Pryce?”
“I formed an idea about him—you also, probably.”
“He had meant to do—er—something that was not discussed. But he managed to give me good reason why he couldn’t do it. I can’t blame him. And I fear he’s right in his conclusions. What was your idea?”
“That Dr Soames Pryce does not care one damn what becomes of the Exiles’ Club—or what happens to himself either.”
“He’s a very unemotional man, hates scenes, prides himself (so I should imagine) on his philosophical calm.”