"Hullo, Vic! there you are!" he said, turning back. "I didn't see you under the tree."
He came back and drew up a chair, with a scraping sound, to the opposite side of my table, leant his elbows upon it, and pushed his hat back. There was a blaze of light, all across the pavement to where we were sitting, from the windows and open glass doors of the cafe. He looked well and uncommonly jolly; a man who lives his life, such as it is, without thought, without reflection, and without philosophy—who views the passing hour without grudging, the past without regret.
"You look awfully seedy," he said. "Anything up?"
"No," I answered. "Well? 'How have we sped in this contest?' How went the dinner?"
"I'll tell you," he said, turning round to secure a passing garcon. "Let's get hold of a drink first. Oh, she's got a jolly place!" he said, when the garcon, and eventually the drink, had been captured. "Nice house and all that. She's married, as you said, and of very good family. Received everywhere, you know."
"Husband at the dinner?" I asked laconically.
"No; husband gone to Tunis on business."
"Expected back to-day, I suppose?"
"No, to-morrow."
"Pity."