“If you want a lift, it'll be a bit of a tight squeeze, but I'll see what I can do,” said Charles, disregarding this speech.
“No, I shall wend my lonely way home, a solitary and pathetic figure. Goodbye, Mrs. Haswell: so very many thanks! I enjoyed myself enormously.”
He followed the car-party to the drive, and saw them set off before limping in their wake.
“I say, is it all right? I mean, oughtn't you to have given him a lift?” asked Abby, who was sitting beside Charles in the front of the sports car. “Does it hurt him to walk?”
“Lord, no!” said Charles. “He can walk for miles. Just can't play games.”
“It must be fairly rotten for him, I should think.”
“Oh, I don't know!” said Charles, with cheerful unconcern. “He's always been like it, you see. Trades on it, if you ask me. People like my mother are sorry for him, and think they've got to make allowances for him. That's why he's so bloody rude.”
“I must say, it was the outside edge to walk off like that, and leave Mavis stranded,” admitted Abby.
“Yes, and absolutely typical. Does it for effect. Walter Plenmeller was a God-Awful type too, though I daresay being smashed up in the War had something to do with that. I say, sir,” he called over his shoulder to Mr. Drybeck, “were all the Plenmellers as bad as Walter and Gavin?”
“I was not acquainted with all the Plenmellers,” replied Mr. Drybeck precisely. “The family has been established in the county for five centuries.”