“Main thing’s to get better,” Tarlyon said; and he lounged briskly towards the door. “Well, good-bye, Marlay—see you here again, probably. Good-bye, Mr. Black—take care of my wife, won’t you? Not many lovely women like that....”
Ivor was by the window, staring sombrely at Wimpole Street. There was a car just outside: it was a closed car, and the driver sat facing him. Some one in the back of the car smiled at his face at the window—a woman—and Ivor vaguely smiled back. Of course, Ann Chester, “pretty Ann.” ... Good God, what a man!
“Seems a good fellow, Tarlyon,” Black said from behind, “in spite of his popularity.”
Ivor turned round to him.
“Oh, yes,” he said vaguely. “Charming....”
“You can see her for a moment now, if you like,” Black told him. “Just a quick moment....”
Ivor appealed to him with a wretched smile.
“I’d rather not, you know. Much rather. And she would talk about the pain, too——”
“Naturally,” Black murmured absently. “It interests her....”