The waiter returned bearing soup and dumped it down.
“V'la!” he observed, with the satisfied air of a man who has successfully performed a difficult conjuring trick. He smiled at Sally expectantly, as though confident of applause from this section of his audience at least. But Sally's face was set and rigid. She had been snubbed, and the sensation was as pleasant as it was novel.
“I think Mr. Kemp had hard luck,” she said.
“If you will excuse me, I would prefer not to discuss the matter.”
Mr. Carmyle's attitude was that Sally might be a pretty girl, but she was a stranger, and the intimate affairs of the Family were not to be discussed with strangers, however prepossessing.
“He was quite in the right. Mr. Scrymgeour was beating a dog...”
“I've heard the details.”
“Oh, I didn't know that. Well, don't you agree with me, then?”
“I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simply because...”
“Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk about it.”