But the rumour grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain recital of fact. Joey had not been seen within the Club for more than a week—in itself a deadly confirmation. The question became: Who was she—what was she like?
“It’s none of our set, or we should have heard something from her side before now,” argued acutely Somerville the Briefless.
“Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and forget the supper,” feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called the Babe. “Old men always fall in love with young girls.”
“Forty,” explained severely Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of Good Humour, “is not old.”
“Well, it isn’t young,” persisted Johnny.
“Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl,” thought Jack Herring. “Somebody for you to play with. I often feel sorry for you, having nobody but grown-up people to talk to.”
“They do get a bit stodgy after a certain age,” agreed the Babe.
“I am hoping,” said Peter, “it will be some sensible, pleasant woman, a little over thirty. He is a dear fellow, Loveredge; and forty is a very good age for a man to marry.”
“Well, if I’m not married before I’m forty—” said the Babe.
“Oh, don’t you fret,” Jack Herring interrupted him—“a pretty boy like you! We will give a ball next season, and bring you out, if you’re good—get you off our hands in no time.”