“No, no; my wife— Must get back!”
Winlow murmured:
“Ah yes, of course.” His leisurely blue eyes, always in command of the situation, rested on the Rector's heated face. “By the way,” he said, “I'm afraid George Pendyce is rather hard hit. Been obliged to sell his horse. I saw him at Epsom the week before last.”
The Rector brightened.
“I made certain he'd come to grief over that betting,” he said. “I'm very sorry—very sorry indeed.”
“They say,” went on Winlow, “that he dropped four thousand over the Thursday race.
“He was pretty well dipped before, I know. Poor old George! such an awfully good chap!”
“Ah,” repeated Mr. Barter, “I'm very sorry—very sorry indeed. Things were bad enough as it was.”
A ray of interest illumined the leisureliness of the Hon. Geoffrey's eyes.
“You mean about Mrs. —— H'm, yes?” he said. “People are talking; you can't stop that. I'm so sorry for the poor Squire, and Mrs. Pendyce. I hope something'll be done.”