“Why?” demanded Connors, with some feeling again. Connors was a widower, and Fosland suddenly remembered, though he could not trace a connection leading to the thought, that Connors had not been a frequenter of the club until after the death of his wife. “Prymm’s a thoroughly decent chap, but he was so wasteful.”
This being a new word in such connection, both Fosland and Tompkinson looked at Connors inquiringly.
“I hadn’t noticed.” This Tompkinson.
“Wasteful of Mrs. Prymm,” explained Connors. “She is a beautiful young woman, clever, charming, companionable, and, naturally, fond of admiration. Prymm admired her. He frequently intimated that he did. He admired his horse, and an exceptional Botticelli which hung in his music room, but his chief pleasure lay in their possession. He never considered that he should give any particular pleasure to the Botticelli, but he did to the horse.”
Gerald Fosland was aware of a particular feel of discomfort. Rather heartless to be discussing a fellow member’s intimate affairs this way.
“It is most unfortunate,” he commented. “Shall we go down to lunch?”
In the hall they met Prymm, a properly set up fellow, with neatly plastered hair and an air of unusually perfect grooming. He presented the appearance of having shaved too closely to-day.
“Good morning,” said Prymm. “Beautiful weather.”
Inconsiderate of Prymm to show up at the club. A trifle selfish of him. It put such a strain on his fellow members. Of course, though, he had most of his mail there. He only stopped for his mail, and went out.
“You’ll be in for the usual Tuesday night whist, I dare say,” inquired Tompkinson perfunctorily.