“Pretty?”
“Charming, I thought.”
“He’s jealous of her. Someone was saying that the chauffeur has orders not to take her into London—only for trips in the country. They live in a big ugly house I’m told on Putney Hill. Did she in any way look—as though——?”
“Not in the least. If she isn’t an absolutely straight young woman I’ve never set eyes on one.”
“He,” said Toomer, “is a disgusting creature.”
“Morally?”
“No, but—generally. Spends his life ruining little tradesmen, for the fun of the thing. He’s three parts an invalid with some obscure kidney disease. Sometimes he spends whole days in bed, drinking Contrexéville Water and planning the bankruptcy of decent men.... So the party made a knight of him.”
“A party must have funds, Toomer.”
“He didn’t pay nearly enough. Blapton is an idiot with the honours. When it isn’t Mrs. Blapton. What can you expect when —— ——”
(But here Toomer became libellous.)