She paused. She wanted to repeat the scandalous gossip about Beryl’s visit to this mystery man, Arabian, immediately after her father’s death. But she could not do it. No, she could not punish him with such a dirty weapon. He was worthy of polished steel, and this would be rusty scrap-iron.
“It’s nothing but stupid gossip,” she said. “And you and I have never dealt in that together, have we?”
“Oh, I enjoy hearing about my neighbours,” he answered, “or I shouldn’t come here.”
She felt a sharp thrust of disappointment. His voice was cold and full of detachment; the glance of his blue eyes was hard and unrelenting. She had never seen him like this till to-day.
“What are they saying about Miss Van Tuyn?” he added. “Anything amusing?”
“No. And in any case it’s not the moment to talk nonsense about her, just when she is in deep mourning.”
With an almost bitter smile she continued, after a slight hesitation:
“There is a close time for game during which the guns must be patient. There ought to be a close time for human beings in sorrow. We ought not to fire at them all the year round.”
“What does it matter? They fire at us all the year round. The carnage is mutual.”
“Have you turned cynic?”