They stopped asking Andreyvitch and Manners around together after a while. But that never kept Manners from speaking of the Russian.
"Was Andreyvitch there?"
"They don't ask us together, eh?"
"No fear, old chap, of my insulting him; I couldn't, you know!"
"Rather a filthy sort of beggar, that Russian; makes the gooseflesh come over me. Happened before. Deuce take the thing!—If I could only think when!"
And then after Manners had dropped out of sight for a fortnight or more, he suddenly made his appearance at the club.
They were all of them unspeakably shocked by his looks. He never carried much weight, but in those two weeks he had gotten down to little else than skin and bones. His color was ghastly. His cheekbones were appallingly prominent and his eyes looked as if they were sunken back into his skull.
To all their questions he gave the same answer:
"No, he wasn't ill. No, he hadn't been ill. There was nothing the matter with him. He'd felt a bit seedy and he'd run down to his place for a fortnight. It was good of them to bother. He was quite, quite all right."
They saw he wanted to be left alone and they let him go over to the window and sit there, his great, loose frame huddled together in the leather arm chair.