Sir Donald smiled.
“Doesn’t he depress you?” added Carey.
“He does, I’m sorry to say, but scarcely so much as I depress him.”
“I think Lady Holme would like him.”
For once Sir Donald looked really expressive, of surprise and disgust.
“Oh, I can’t think so!” he said.
“Yes, yes, she would. She doesn’t care honestly for art-loving men. Her idea of a real man, the sort of man a woman marries, or bolts with, or goes off her head for, is a huge mass of bones and muscles and thews and sinews that knows not beauty. And your son would adore her, Sir Donald. Better not let him, though. Holme’s a jealous devil.”
“Totally without reason,” said Pierce, with a touch of bitterness.
“No doubt. It’s part of his Grand Turk nature. He ought to possess a Yildiz. He’s out of place in London where marital jealousy is more unfashionable than pegtop trousers.”
He buried himself in his glass. Sir Donald rose to go.