He took up the current Vanity Fair and displayed a caricature of Archibald Samphire—the Chrysostom of Sloane Street. It was one of Pellegrini's best bits of work, but the "fine animal" in Archibald had been slightly overdrawn, unintentionally, no doubt, on the artist's part. The florid complexion, the massive jaw, the curls, the lips, were subtly exaggerated. None would be surprised to learn that Chrysostom lived in Cadogan Place with a cordon bleu at fifty-five pounds a year. Mark gazed at the cartoon and then laid it, face downwards, on the table.
"The thing's wonderful," he said slowly, "but it will hurt Betty."
Jim Corrance shrugged his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that a touch of the animal in men was not a disability where women were concerned.
"I saw them at Victoria," said Mark.
"What?"
Mark explained, blaming himself.
"You've given yourself away," said Jim disgustedly. "She had got it into her head that you didn't care, but the man who doesn't care would hardly travel from Sutherland to London to catch one glimpse of another fellow's bride. Lord! You have made a mess of it. And what are you going to do now? Have a drink, and tell me your plans."
"I'm going to write."
"Have you rewritten the novel you burnt?"
"No; but I'm half-way through another."