Ryder glanced again at Miss Emory, and said, with hard cynicism: “The notice will appear in Saturday's Herald, with a tribute from her pastor. I never refuse his verse. It invariably contains some scathing comment on the uncertainty of the Baptist faith as a means of salvation.”
But this was wasted on Joyce. Ryder rose with a sigh.
“Well, we toilers must think of the morrow.”
Oakley accepted this as a sign that it was time to go. Joyce, too, stumbled across the room to the door, and the three men took their leave together. As they stood on the steps, the doctor said, cordially, “I hope you will both come again soon; and you, too, Turner,” he added, kindly.
Ryder moved off quickly with Oakley. Joyce would have dropped behind, but the latter made room for him at his side. No one spoke until Ryder, halting on a street corner, said, “Sorry, but it's out of my way to go any farther unless you'll play a game of billiards with me at the hotel, Oakley.”
“Thanks,” curtly. “I don't play billiards.”
“No? Well, they are a waste of time, I suppose. Good-night.” And he turned down the side street, whistling softly.
“A very extraordinary young man,” murmured Joyce, rubbing the tip of his nose meditatively with a painty forefinger. “And with quite an extraordinary opinion of himself.”
A sudden feeling of friendliness prompted Oakley to tuck his hand through the little artist's arm. “How is Bentick bearing the loss of his wife?” he asked. “You said she was your cousin.”
“No, not mine. My wife's. Poor fellow! he feels it keenly. They had not been married long, you know.”