Winn, whose temper was extremely ruffled, gave him a formidable glance.
“You get into things a bit too soon, my boy,” he replied coldly, “and get out of ’em a bit too late.”
“Oh, come, you know,” said Maurice, jauntily, “I’m not responsible for poor old Bouncing’s death, am I?”
“I don’t say you are,” Winn continued, without looking any pleasanter. “Bouncing had to die, and a jolly good thing for him it was when it came off; his life wasn’t worth a row of pins. But I wasn’t talking about him; I was talking about her. If you really want my advice, I’ll tell you plainly that if you want to go the pace, choose women one doesn’t marry, don’t monkey about with the more or less respectable ones who have a right to expect you to play the game. It’s not done, and it’s beastly unfair. D’ you see my point?”
Maurice wondered if he should be thoroughly angry or not. Suddenly it occurred to him that Winn was waiting, and that he had better see his point and not be thoroughly angry.
“Yes, I dare say I did go a little far,” he admitted, throwing out a manly chest; “but between you and me, Staines, should you say our friend Mrs. B. was respectable or not?”
“She isn’t my friend,” said Winn, grimly; “but as she ought to be yours, I’ll trouble you to keep your questions to yourself.”
The idea of being angry having apparently been taken out of Maurice’s hands, he made haste to disappear into the hotel.
Winn walked on into the village. It was the last time he intended to go there. There was nothing peculiarly touching about the flat, long road, with the rink beneath it and the mountains above. The houses and shops, German pensions and crowded balconies had no particular charm. Even the tall, thin spire of the church lacked distinction; and yet it seemed to Winn that it would be difficult to forget. He stopped at the rink as he returned to pick up his skates. He told himself that he was fortunate when he discovered Claire, with Lionel on one side of her and Ponsonby on the other; he had wanted the help of an audience; now he was going to have one. Claire saw him before the others did, and skated swiftly across to him.
“But why don’t you put your skates on?” she said, pointing to them in his hand. “You’re not much good there, you know, on the bank.”