I saw that Mr. Waters hadn’t realized what I suspected: namely, that Sydney was beginning to find my chum quite sufficiently “lovely” as a girl, not merely as a confidante for his sorrows about “another,” who was, as he imagined, “another’s.” But I was longing to hear some comment on Sydney.
I should have been left longing, I suppose, if I hadn’t said straight out, “What did you think of Mr. Vandeleur?”
“Oh, come! What a question! How can one tell, after seeing a man for half an hour? He seemed—clever, and all that,” fenced my companion. “Of course he’s not the sort of man I get thrown much with in that sordid, detestable City of mine, as you call it. What does he do?”
“He doesn’t have to ‘do’ anything.”
“Rather lucky for him,” remarked Mr. Waters, in a tone I didn’t fathom.
I said, “But he does draw and design—and he writes dramatic criticisms—and he composes.”
“Gifted sort of chap,” said Mr. Waters smoothly. “I suppose——”
And then stopped.
“You suppose what?” I urged. “No, do tell me,” as he looked obstinately ahead and shut his lips into that line. “You must, Billy!” Then I found myself laughing and colouring a little with surprise. For the first time I’d used that absurd name in speaking directly to him.
He turned to me, smiling once more in quite a friendly way. But it was not to answer my question. It was to ask another.