“That friend of Mr Moseley’s seems a very quiet man,” Mrs Hollingworth was saying. “Who is he, George?”
“Never saw him before in my life. In the same line of business, I take it. His ‘quietness,’ though, seemed to me to cover a suspicion of ‘side.’ Sort of ‘know everything’ manner.”
“Yes. Perhaps I am wrong, but there seemed a sort of conscious superiority about him. What did you think, Nidia?”
“Just what you do. But we may be wrong. The other is all rights though, so jolly and good-natured always. We came out on the same ship.”
“Moseley. Yes; he’s a good chap, but he’s got a detestable wife,” said Hollingworth.
“It’s astonishing what a number of ‘good chaps’ have,” laughed Nidia. “But where is she?”
“In England now. Moseley drives his trade here, and she has a good time on the lion’s share of the proceeds there. She won’t stay in this country. Yes? What is it?”
This to his son and heir, aetat ten, who was trying to get in a chance of asking to be allowed to go out and shoot a buck.
“Don’t know. You’re too much of a kiddie, Jim. Your mother fidgeted herself—and me—to death last time you went.”
“I got the buck, though,” was the reply, half defiant, half triumphant.