"But do you think he ought to be there?" I asked, following him on to the ground which he had chosen. "They're both young, attractive; your wife's a very fascinating and beautiful woman. She can take care of herself, of course.... It was in fact commented on at dinner the other night."
O'Rane wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction.
"He's company for Sonia," he said weakly.
"You'd be company for her, if she came here or you went to live in London. Much better company, too," I added.
My tone may have betrayed more than I intended to convey, for O'Rane laughed.
"You don't like her friends? I don't care a great lot for some of them, but you must remember that she gave up a good deal to marry me—a very full life—and I can't give her much. What I can give her is the freest possible hand. That's why I haven't pressed her to come down here, though, God knows, it's lonely enough without her. By Easter, if not Christmas——"
"Won't you have given this up by Christmas?" I asked.
His face grew tired and perplexed, and he ran his fingers impatiently through his hair.
"I don't know. I owe the devil of a lot of money; and I should be damned body and soul, if I lived on charity when I could earn my own livelihood. We'll discuss it at Christmas. In the meantime, can you stay and dine with me in Common Room?"
His invitation was a reminder that I had already stayed perilously long, if I was to get back to London in time for a dinner engagement.