“And not to be wasted. It wouldn’t matter if Lewin were used up, eh?”
Gregory shrugged his shoulders. “What on earth did Government mean by sending me a Mediterranean Station man?” he said in his repressed tones. “Who am I to depend on when you go?”
“He may wake up.”
“He’ll play tennis.”
“I have an idea his wife may push him through,” said the Commissioner slowly, poking a hard-back beetle with his forefinger as he spoke. He was looking at the insect as he spoke, and not at his vis-à-vis. Gregory’s lidless eyes were fixed on him, however, in their usual direct fashion. “She is by way of being an ambitious woman.”
“Is she? I have no impression of her beyond the fact that she was talking rather intelligently to Churton, on one occasion.”
“When was that?” Halton raised his eyes and spoke more quickly, still mechanically keeping the beetle struggling on his back.
“Two days ago, at Mrs. White’s. I didn’t speak to Mrs. Lewin, but I heard her talk.” He was unaware of the fact that Mrs. Lewin had been conscious of him as an audience what time she quietly drained the O.C.T. for information.
“I think she has brains. She is more attracted by Key Island than its meagre diversions.”
“Pity the girl isn’t the boy, then!” said the Administrator cynically. “This thing that sweats through a morning as my private secretary, and then with a sigh of relief scrambles into his flannels, is cursed with the curse of Reuben.”