‘Someone who apparently was kind to you,’ says Wyndham indifferently, breaking off from the stem, but not eating, the purple grapes before him.
‘Kind!’ says Crosby. ‘Hardly that.’
‘Unkind?’
‘More than that.’
‘She told you——’
‘That I was a thief.’ Wyndham’s indifference ceases for a moment.
‘Strong language,’ says he.
‘True, I assure you. Do I look like one? Ever since that terrible denunciation I have often asked myself whether so much knocking about as I have known has not ruffianized me in appearance, at all events.’
‘Where on earth is the Arcadia you speak of?’ asks Wyndham.
‘Well, to tell you everything, I went down to Curraghcloyne this morning to have a look at the old place.’