“Try one of those cigars.”
Sir Donald took one and lit it quietly, looking at Carey, who seemed to interest him a good deal.
“Why are you miserable, Carey?” said Pierce, as the former buried his moustache in a tall whisky-and-soda.
“Because I’m alive and don’t want to be dead. Reason enough.”
“Because you’re an unmitigated egoist,” rejoined Pierce.
“Yes, I am an egoist. Introduce me to a man who is not, will you?”
“And what about women?”
“Many women are not egoists. But you have been dining with one of the most finished egoists in London to-night.”
“Lady Holme?” said Sir Donald, shifting into the left-hand corner of the sofa.
“Yes, Viola Holme, once Lady Viola Grantoun; whom I mustn’t know any more.”