They had reached the door of the hotel, and, after a few words, Cressida and her husband went into the building.
“Nice pair they make,” Wendover remarked, glancing after them as they went. “I like to see youngsters of that type. They somehow make you feel that the younger generation isn't any worse than its parents; and that it has a good deal less fuss about it, too. Reinstates one's belief in humanity, and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton concurred, with a faint twinkle in his eye. “Some people one takes to instinctively. It's the manner that does it. I remember a man I once ran across—splendid fellow, charm, magnetic personality, and so on.”
His voice died away, as though he had lost interest in the matter.
“Yes?” Wendover inquired, evidently feeling that the story had stopped too soon.
“He was the worst poker-sharp on the liner,” Sir Clinton added gently, “Charm of manner was one of his assets, you know.”
Wendover's annoyance was only half-feigned.
“You've a sordid mind, Clinton. I don't like to hear you throwing out hints about people in that way. Anyone can see that's a girl out of the common; and all you can think of in that connection is card-sharps.”
Sir Clinton seemed sobered by his friend's vexation.
“You're quite right, squire,” he agreed. “She's out of the common, as you say. I don't know anything about her history, but it doesn't take much to see that something's happened to her. She looks as if she'd taken the world at her own measure at first, trusted everybody. And then she got a devil of a shock one day. At least, if that isn't in her eyes, then I throw in my hand. I've seen the same expression once or twice before.”