White took up his eye-glass, examined it with short-sighted earnestness, and screwed it solemnly into his eye.
“Cambridge Terrace?” he said, and stared in front of him.
“Yes. Have you seen the Ferribys since your glorious return to these—er—shores?” As he spoke, Cornish gave only half of his attention. He knew so many people that Piccadilly was a work of considerable effort, and it is difficult to bow gracefully from a hansom cab.
“Can't say I have.”
“Then come in and see them now. We shall find only Joan at home, and she will not mind your fine feathers or the dust and circumstance of war upon your boots. Lady Ferriby will be sneaking about in the direction of Edgware Road—fish is nearly two pence a pound cheaper there, I understand. My respected uncle is sure to be sunning his waistcoat in Piccadilly. Yes, there he is. Isn't he splendid? How do, uncle?” and Cornish waved a grey Suède glove with a gay nod.
“How are the Ferribys?” inquired Major White, who belonged to the curt school.
“Oh, they seem to be well. Uncle is full of that charity which at all events has its headquarters in the home counties. Aunt—well, aunt is saving money.”
“And Miss Ferriby?” inquired White, looking straight in front of him.
Cornish glanced quickly at his companion. “Oh, Joan?” he answered. “She is all right. Full of energy, you know—all the fads in their courses.”
“You get 'em too.”