“Rather! He and I lived together for a year in the Rue de Seine.”
“And he and I spent a year in the same house in the Rue Bonaparte.”
“And now he’s out in Red Wing, Minnesota, doing very well, I hear.”
“The last time I saw him was in London. We dined together at the Piccadilly and did a theater.”
“And Tommy Runt? Do you ever hear of him?”
“Not since he went back to Melbourne; but that chap he was always about with—Saunderson, wasn’t it?—he was killed in a motor accident near Glasgow.”
“So I heard. Some one told me—Pickman, I think it was—an Englishman—but you didn’t know Pickman, did you? He left the year I came, which must have been three or four years before your time. By the way, why don’t we sit down?”
In the process of sitting down I remembered my manners.
“Mr. Coningsby, won’t you let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Lovey?”
Lovey was seated, nursing a knee and looking as wretched as a dog to whom no one is paying the customary attention. He resented Coningsby’s appearance; he resented a kind of talk which put me beyond his reach.