“Rotten, wasn't it?” commented Siward, tying his tie.
“Perfectly. Of course it doesn't make any difference to Grace or to me, but I fancy you've already heard from it.”
“Oh, yes. All I care about is how my mother took it.”
“Of course; she was cut up I suppose?”
“Yes, you know how she would look at a thing of that sort; not that any of the nine and seventy jarring sets would care, but those few thousands invading the edges, butting in—half or three-quarters inside—are the people who can't afford to overlook the victim of a fashionable club's displeasure—those, and a woman like my mother, and several other decent-minded people who happen to count in town.”
Ferrall, his legs swinging busily, thought again; then: “Who was the girl, Stephen?”
“I don't think the papers mentioned her name,” said Siward gravely.
“Oh—I beg your pardon; I thought she was some notorious actress—everybody said so.... Who were those callow fools who put you up to it?... Never mind if you don't care to tell. But it strikes me they are candidates for club discipline as well as you. It was up to them to face the governors I think—”
“No, I think not.”
Ferrall, legs swinging busily, considered him.