Roger ate and listened to the girl on his left—Alicia Kinnear, the tennis player. Mrs. Richmond had Count d’Artois on her right, and he talked steadily of “Vahd.” She listened sourly and from time to time shot a glance down the table at him—the glance of the alarmed and angry mother of a rather unmanageable heiress. Peter—directly opposite Roger—was as silent as he, but instead of covering his silence with appreciation of the Richmond chef he stared at the lace insertion of the tablecloth and crumbled and messed his roll. Beatrice was the happiest of the thirty-two at that table. She was radiant, ecstatic.
“Aren’t you going to say a single word to me?” she inquired of Roger when he had finished the game course. “You can’t still be ravenously hungry.”
“I’ve eaten too much,” replied he. “I’m stupid.”
“It really doesn’t matter, as I’ll see you to-morrow morning.”
“I’m not working to-morrow. I’ve got to go to town.”
“Then the day after?”
“I may stay in town several days.”
Her expression was so hurt, so depressed, that he felt guilty, mean.
“It’s terribly hard to be friends with you, isn’t it?” said she.
“Because I refuse to spend my time idling about? You must choose your friends in your own class. No good ever comes of going out of it.”