“You mean Verplank?”
“I suppose I do. Anyway I mean her first husband. Why were they divorced?”
“Why? But my dear Tempest, divorce in the States is what racing is with us, a national amusement. Everybody takes a hand in it.”
“The right or the left?”
“Both I fancy. Though in the case of Madame B. I have an idea that the right turned out to be wrong.”
Tempest flicked the ashes from his cigar. “I may compliment you, Silverstairs. You have a manner of expressing yourself which is highly cryptic. But now, to an every day sort of chap like myself, would you mind being less abstruse?”
“I should feel sordid if I refused. Verplank is a very good sort, whereas this Barouffski is a rotter.”
Tempest bowed. “Thank you for descending to my level. The long and short of it is that she has made a mess of it. Well, most people do. I don’t wonder now that over the soup she talked about fate.”
“Oh, as for that, after certain experiences of my own, with which, pray do not be alarmed, I have no intention of boring you, I have stopped wondering at anything at all.”
“Silverstairs, in ceasing to be cryptic, do not become Spartan. My cousin told me that Joyeuse hunted with this, with What’s-his-name, with—er——”