"Oh!"
Chalfont was incapable of more than the exclamation. He knew all about Woolf. Sudden pity for Maggy took hold of him. He could not run the man down; he could not tell her that Woolf's name stank in the nostrils of decent-minded men; that even the men who fraternized with him took care to keep their womenfolk out of his reach. He could not tell her of Woolf's shady reputation on the turf, at the card table, and in the city. He saw that it would be useless to do so, and also cruel.
"You've met him, haven't you?" she asked.
"I've seen him at race-meetings and—and once at a club to which I belong."
She nodded. "Fred goes everywhere."
Chalfont did not pursue the subject.
"I must go now," said Maggy. "Good-by.... Oh, I forgot to thank you for the roses." She colored, remembering the fate they had suffered.
"I'm glad you liked them. They were Mrs. Lambert's favorites."
"Oh, were they? If I'd known that I would have got some instead of the wreath I sent."
"It was a beautiful wreath—so simple. She wouldn't have wished it altered if she could have seen it. It didn't remind one of a funeral."