“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said fiercely.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me she was like that.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Jim shut his mouth with a snap.
“Nothin’,” he said.
These Featherstones knew how to enjoy themselves. For hour after hour the dreamy strains of waltz music came from the string orchestra, and couples moved rhythmically round the big room, as though fatigue was a thing unknown. Once or twice Jim caught sight of the angel of his dreams, with face no longer pale, hanging on some man’s arm, immersed in the all-consuming measure. It was maddening....
He was sitting in the conservatory, smoking, when Featherstone came out. All the evening he had kept an inquisitive eye on Jim. This was Featherstone’s mental day, and one of those rare occasions when he thought about money and things.
“Ah, Mr. Conlan,” he drawled. “So you don’t dance?” 64
“No—leastways, not that sort.”