“Doesn’t he?” said Mrs. Thorpe, astonished. She paused, then added tentatively, “I suppose he eats pretty well otherwise?”
“He’s not what I call a hearty eater,” said Mrs. Jebb. “Now my poor husband——”
“Eats no butter?” interjected Mrs. Will Werrit with a side-glance at Andy as he stood by the buffet. “You may depend on it he’s ruined his digestion with eating too much.”
“Well,” agreed Mrs. Thorpe, “I should never have hinted at such a thing if it hadn’t leaked out somehow without my knowledge, but of course no stomach could stand the strain for any great length of time.”
Their combined gaze, fixed on Andy’s slack waistcoat, somehow drew his attention towards the group, and he came forward, saying in his most cheery, parochial manner—
“Well, Mrs. Thorpe, can I get you anything more?”
“Not for us, thank you,” said Mrs. Thorpe.
“Perhaps you are like me, not great supper-eaters,” said Andy, anxious to be agreeable.
Glances passed round. Of course he could not eat any supper. No doubt inordinate eating had made him into a confirmed dyspeptic. No young man in ordinary health would give up eating butter.
But at that moment a servant came quietly through the crowd and spoke first to Mrs. Werrit and then to Andy. Old Mrs. Werrit had been taken suddenly worse and wished to see him.