He was a difficult man to talk with, noncommittal and without humor. It was a relief to him, without a doubt, when Mr. and Mrs. Leeds were announced.
I performed the usual introductions, but Leeds listens only to his own voice, never to that of anybody else.
He said, “How d’ye do,” and in the same breath went on to talk of the play, and ended his sentence with a hearty laugh and the pleasing observation:
“Amateur theatricals almost always lead to a scandal of some sort, that’s the beauty of them. Somebody runs off with somebody else’s wife—that sort of thing. I’ve seen it happen time and time again—”
“Mr. Harter, have another drink,” said I, with all the distinctness of utterance at my command. I saw—and no doubt Harter did, too—that Leeds jumped at the sound of his name. Then he looked at Mrs. Leeds, then again, hard, at Harter, and finally at me, with comically raised eyebrows. Harter remained entirely impervious.
“Let me see, you and I met once in Cairo, I believe,” said Mr. Leeds, “when our yacht was at Alexandria.”
“Yes,” said the little man, with a sort of neutral civility. “I believe that was so.”
“And your wife—”
“Oh, yes.”
There was a pause.