At that breakfast very little was said. McTaggart was getting used to the rich. He lit a pipe. But he stood mum.
Victoria Mosel and Tom Galton met in Marking Room.
"Vic," said Tommy Galton, "who do you think has got it?" He lounged back in the absurdly low, fat chair, letting himself go all loose, as is the habit of your hard-riding man—especially those who pull horses—and looking down at her calves after the admirable breeding of our day.
"You haven't, anyhow, Tommy!" lisped Victoria Mosel, in spite of the hanging cigarette. "I've got that much!"
"Thank God for that! Spread it!" said Galton.
"Thank me, too," said Vic.
"All right. Thank you, too. Damn you! Who's got it?"
Victoria Mosel turned round, spat the fragment of the cigarette into the fire, and lit another one.
"I'm thinking," she said.
"The natural thing," said Galton, shutting his eyes, "would be that putrid fellah McTaggart: the journalist fellah!"