Jellaby then, though he could not have the courtesy to say good-bye to me, could take a prolonged farewell of my wife and of the other members of our party.
“He is not what we in our country would call a gentleman,” I said, after a silence during which I finished the third egg and regretted there were no more.
“Who is not?” asked Menzies-Legh.
“Jellaby. No doubt the term bounder would apply to him quite as well as to other people.”
Menzies-Legh turned his sallow visage to me. “He’s a great friend of mine,” he said, the familiar scowl weighing down his eyebrows.
I could not help smiling and shaking my head at that, all I had heard the night before so very fresh in my memory.
“Ah, my dear sir,” I said, “be careful how you trust your great friends. Do not give way too lavishly to confidence. Belief in them is all very well, but it should not go beyond the limits of reason.”
“He’s a great friend of mine,” repeated Menzies-Legh, raising his voice.
“I wish then,” said I, “you would tell me what a bounder is.”
He glowered at me a moment from beneath black brows. Then he said more quietly: