“No, you old stupid. Mrs. Peter Masters. I know you knew her, because there’s a pen-and-ink sketch of you and Mr. Masters playing cards in the room.”
“Oh, is there.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yes.”
“What was she like—to marry Mr. Masters?”
“Like? Like other women,” returned Aymer, shortly.
Christopher looked at him sharply and realised he had committed an indiscretion—that this was a subject that might not be handled even with a velvet glove.
“Explicit,” he retorted lightly. “However, that’s not important. Now for something of real moment.”
He plunged into an account of Peter’s final offer to him, and his own refusal.
“Why on earth did you refuse? Wasn’t it good enough?” demanded Aymer curtly.