“And they’re the most rarely plain people of all,” added Timothy—not without reverence.
V
WARNER—WHAT ELSE BUT A WAG?
“ ... Just as I was telling Timmie the other night, when a man’s serious—and only then—his trouble begins! Well, I must be tripping along; promised to help Sheila give Lady Trotworthy tea—the dear old soul’s mind isn’t so light on its feet any more, you know. Bye-bye, Hawley. Bye, Plunkett.” Warner threw his coat over his shoulder and departed.
Hawley moved his feet still an inch higher on one of the Club’s red leather chairs. “Awful’ good fellow, Warner,” he vouchsafed, as intelligibly as his cigar would let him.
“Fine,” agreed Plunkett (respectfully speaking, Mr. Knollys Verplanck) from the depths of another red leather chair.
“Er—awfully funny, and all that, you know. Keeps things goin’. I don’t know what Sheila’d do if it wasn’t for Warner, since she has that old English Someone to stop. Nice old lady, y’know, but—well, her mind is a bit heavy on its feet, just as Warner said. Don’t know what he’d say if he knew there was another coming to-morrow—another Englishwoman I mean, but nothing like Lady Trot; Sheila says this one’s young and tremendously good-looking. Well, I’m glad—for Warner. He deserves some kind of reward after a week of Lady Trot. Deuced good of him to help Sheila; he’s so—so funny, don’ che know.”
“Very funny,” agreed Verplanck again.
“But—but I say, Plunkett”—uneasily the substantial tan boots drew themselves down from comfort, and Hawley’s big, solid body bent confidentially toward his friend—“I wouldn’t have any of these other chaps hear me, you know, not for worlds; but I’ve often wondered—d’ye think Warner’s anything besides funny, Plunkett? D’ye think—well, what else but a wag is he, eh? I dunno.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Verplanck, frankly; and he stared out across the crowded Avenue, with an expression that paid Warner no little compliment—by its regret. “I tell you candidly, Deverence, I’ve known Jim Warner now for nearly twelve years, and I’ve never yet heard him say anything but a joke. By George, the other night at Treadham’s, when that girl’s dress was on fire, I could have killed Warner! There the girl was, in flames, and Warner, with his eyes right on her, sitting still on the other side of the room, telling a funny story! Why half the people in the room didn’t know she was on fire, even. I tell you, it made me mad—so mad, I’ve scarcely been civil to Jim since.”
“D’you say anything to him about it?” Hawley’s cigar had gone out. His big, good-humored face looked almost earnest.