He, Yorke, and the demon with him, turned into the club at last, and Yorke ordered some dinner. The footman brought him the carte de jour, but Yorke flicked it from him.
"Bring me what you like," he said indifferently, and he was eating it as indifferently when Lord Vinson sauntered up.
"Halloo, Auchester!" he said. Yorke nodded absently, not to say, surlily. "All alone? I'll join you."
He sat down, and after studying the carte with devout attention, ordered his dinner, and then, having disposed of his soup, wanted to talk.
"Just seen Finetta," he said. Yorke looked up swiftly, but said nothing; and Vinson went on, as he picked the bones from his red mullet. "'Pon my soul, I think all women are mad—I do, indeed!"
"Why?" said Yorke. He was bound to say something.
"Why, take Fin, for instance. There she is at the top of the tree, earning thousands a year, a regular popular favorite; and, hang me, if she doesn't shirk her work at the theater three days out of six, and actually talk about cutting the shop altogether! Seems to have lost her senses lately. And she used to be so cute at one time, eh?"
Yorke said nothing, but bowed at his plate.
"By the way, you and she have had a row, haven't you?" said Vinson, after a moment or two.
"A row? No. Why?"