"Indeed!" said Abinger dryly; and Bramham virtuously remarked: "We are not all so inflammable as you."
"Ah, I forgot! You're all saints and celibates here."
Capron's loose lips took a sardonic twist. "Quite a mistake for the women to call you and Abinger and Eve the three bad men, isn't it? I asked the beautiful Mrs. Gruyère only yesterday why it was—and what do you think she said, my dears?"
No one seemed anxious to learn, but Capron sprightfully proceeded:
"—Because one's wife wouldn't live with him, and another wouldn't live with his wife, and the third has a penchant for the wife of his neighbour."
The withers of the three bad men were apparently unwrung. If any of them were embarrassed they concealed the fact skilfully behind stony eyes and complexions of varying degrees of tan. Carson seemed to be composing himself for a good night's sleep. It is true that Bramham, whose wife had been dead for less than a year, appeared to swallow something unpleasant before he remarked in an equable manner that Capron and Mrs. Gruyère were a nice brace of birds.
"Don't say that, Brammie." Capron was possessed of a high-pitched, rather Celtic voice. "I defended you all manfully. 'Oh,' said I, 'you should not be too hard upon them. They have a mot which they respect about gates and girls.' At that she left me so suddenly that I hadn't time to find out from her which of you is which."
"P-per-haps," stammered Abinger softly, "if you ask us we'll tell you."
"Well, y-yes," said Capron, mocking Abinger with the fearlessness of the man of many drinks; "I think p-perhaps I ought to know, seeing that I have a wife myself."
The silence that ensued had a quality in it which made it differ from all the other silences of that evening: and it only lasted a second, for Carson awoke, and he and Bramham rose abruptly and spoke together.