“Good morning, Fosland,” drawled Tompkinson. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, and they sat together in voiceless satisfaction until Connors came in.
“Good morning,” observed Connors. “Beautiful weather.”
“Yes,” replied Fosland and Tompkinson, and Connors sat.
“Depressing affair of Prymm’s,” presently remarked Tompkinson, calling a boy for the customary appetiser.
“Rotten,” agreed Connors, with some feeling. All his ancestors had been Irish, and it never quite gets out of the blood.
“I haven’t heard,” suggested Fosland, with the decent interest one club-fellow should have in another.
“Wife went to Italy with the sculptor who made her portrait; Carmelli, that’s the name. Intense looking fellow, you know. Prymm had him here at the club.”
“You don’t tell me.” Gerald felt an unusual throb of commiseration for Prymm. “Mighty decent chap.”
“Yes, Prymm’s all cut up about it,” went on Tompkinson. “Has a sort of notion he should kill the fellow, or something of the kind.”