“George is getting very considerate,” she said one day as he had just gone. “I can’t believe he is staying in London just to come and see his sick and ailing wife—and yet what on earth can he find to do in London in August?”
“God knows!” shrugged Ivor. Having seen Ann Chester that morning in Bond Street, he thought God wouldn’t have to be very clever to know.
“Naturally,” Virginia said, “there’s always ‘pretty Ann.’ He can do what he likes with ‘pretty Ann.’”
Ivor suddenly decided that Tarlyon was bad for Virginia. He fumbled in his mind as to, exactly, in what way, but didn’t quite get it....
“I was thinking,” he said, “that I like Tarlyon less and less.”
“But why less and less?” Virginia opened her eyes very wide to ask. “You couldn’t like him less than you’ve always done....” Now that was not quite fair of Virginia to say that; and she herself had once discovered a theory that George and Ivor might have been great friends—might have. “You’d have laughed together,” she said. “You are both braggarts, in an internal, headachy way....”
“He’s bad for you,” Ivor vaguely but firmly explained.
“What, me! Oh, Ivor, tell me how?” she begged him childishly. “You are subtle to-day, I do think!”
“He’s got a queer effect on you,” Ivor tried to explain, prowling about at the foot of the bed. “You somehow go hard, different. I don’t know....”
“I’m sure I don’t,” said Virginia.