“I don’t go for walks on Sunday, Clem.”
“Do you not?”
It was at this point that Wynne, who was coming down the stairs, halted and noted with admiration and surprise the bluff, hearty figure of the strange visitor, who wore no gloves and carried no cane, and whose clothes seemed to breathe contempt for Sabbatical traditions.
“Do you not? Why not?”
“Some of us go to church on Sunday.”
“Do you go because you want to go or because it’s Sunday?”
Wynne’s heart almost stopped beating. Those were his feelings about half-past eight breakfast expressed in words. Apparently Clem neither desired nor expected a reply, for he put another question:
“How’s tea, Robert? ’Strordinary thing, here are you—most respectable fellow living—deliberately supplying a beverage that causes more scandal among its consumers than any other in the world. Opium’s a joke to it. Ever thought of that?”
“No, and don’t intend to.”
“Ha, well—it’s worth while. Hullo! Who’s this?” His eye fell upon Wynne.