“I told him—I couldn’t help telling him—I thought he might have made some pretence at least, at aiding the girl, as long as he saw——”
“And what d’ he say?”
“He said ‘my dear boy, there were five of you aiding her already. I never deliberately make myself inconspicuous!’ Yes, sir, that was just exactly what he said!”
Hawley swore; plentifully. “And d’ye know,” he added, plaintive through his disgust, “Sheila told me that was the funniest story she ever heard in her life; told me about it after we got home, and by Gad, it was funny! Began with——”
“Oh, of course!” Knollys shook his shoulders impatiently. “His stories always are funny. He’s always funny. He can’t help being funny. But great Heavens, Hawley, he can help being nothing else! It does seem to me that a fellow ought to have something come to him besides a laugh. He’s got an almighty fine face.”
“Right!” Genuine affection beamed from Hawley’s dog-eyes. “I—don’t you suppose it’s rather because he—there’s never been any woman, I mean?” The big “society man” lapsed into sudden shyness. “I think all that—that sort of thing, y’know, makes a tremendous difference, old chap.”
The other man met his eyes squarely. “So do I,” he said; and it was as though their hands had gripped for the moment. “Yes, I daresay you’re right: Warner’s never had much to do with women—now I think of it, I’ve never seen him with one, except Ellen and Sheila, and then only at parties, or when there’s some guest to help entertain, like now at your house. Odd, too, for Warner’s just the sort that ought to succeed with a woman——”
“Yes”—Hawley nodded—“devilish good-lookin’, plenty of money, and er—what d’ye call it? Debonair, y’know; um-m, that’s it, debonair. Asked Sheila what it meant, and she said the sort of person who could tell you his own tragedy as though it were some one’s else. Poor little Sheila! I’ll bet she’s having her own troubles this afternoon—a tea-party and Lady Trot all together—whew! S’pose I’d better run along and help ’em out, what?” He drained his glass regretfully. “Come up for a bit, Plunkett?”
“Thanks”—Knollys too was reaching for his hat—“I’ve to do ‘notions’ for Ellen: beeswax and binding-tape, and er—ah, yes! Elastic, you know! Pale blue, a yard and—and how much, Hawley?” Mr. Verplanck’s aristocratic nose wrinkled thoughtfully. “Blessed if I know.”
Hawley roared. “Come on up, when you’ve found out,” he called, as they left each other at the foot of the Club steps. “Warner’s sure to have some ripping story for us; so—er—so deuced funny, y’know, Warner!”