“It’s a marvel,” she said, getting up. “If you had let it go I should almost have despised you.”
“Please tell that to Carey when he comes to you to complain. And now, what is it?”
“You remember several months ago the tragedy of a man called Dion Leith, who fought in the South African War, came home and almost immediately after his return killed his only son by mistake out shooting?”
“Yes. You knew him, I think you said. He was married to that beautiful Rosamund Everard who used to sing. I heard her once at Tippie Chetwinde’s. Esme Darlington was a great admirer or hers, of course pour le bon motif.”
“Dion Leith’s here.”
“In Therapia?”
“No, in a hideous little hotel in Constantinople.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think he knows. His wife has given him up. She was a mother, not a lover, so you can imagine her feelings about the man who killed her child. It seems she was une mere folle. She has left him and, according to him, has given herself to God. He’s in a most peculiar condition. He was a model husband, absolutely devoted and entirely irreproachable. Even before marriage, I should think he had kept out of the way of—things. The athlete with ideals—he was that, one supposes.”
“How extraordinarily attractive!” said Lady Ingleton, in a lazy and rather drawling voice.