“I'll bet you never heard him say so,” returned Fleetwood. “You know Stephen Siward's way; he never said anything unpleasant about any man. I wish I didn't either, but I do. So do you. So do most men.... Lord! I wish Siward were back here. He was a good deal of a man, after all, Tom.”
They were unconsciously using the past tense in discussing Siward, as though he were dead, either physically or socially.
“In one way he was always a singularly decent man,” mused O'Hara, walking toward the great marble vestibule and buttoning his overcoat.
“How exactly do you mean?”
“Oh, about women.”
“I believe it, too. If he did take that Vyse girl into the Patroons, it was his limit with her—and, I believe his limit with any woman. He was absurdly decent that way; he was indeed. And now look at the reputation he has! Isn't it funny? isn't it, now?”
“What sort of an effect do you suppose all this business is going to have on Siward?”
“It's had one effect already,” replied Fleetwood, as Plank came up, ready for the street. “Ferrall says he looks sick, and Belwether says he's going to the devil; but that's the sort of thing the major is likely to say. By the way, wasn't there something between that pretty Landis girl and Siward? Somebody—some damned gossiping somebody—talked about it somewhere, recently.”
“I don't believe that, either,” said Plank, in his heavy, measured, passionless voice, as they descended the steps of the white portico and looked around for a cab.
“As for me, I've got to hustle,” observed O'Hara, glancing at his watch. “I'm due to shine at a function about five. Are you coming up-town either of you fellows? I'll give you a lift as far as Seventy-second Street, Plank.”