“Yes: after an evening with our fair Constance. I am restful, eh?”
David blushed. How unpleasant Tom could be! But he was sorry he had blushed. For Tom looked sharp at him: his face seemed to be coming forward as he looked. Then, he dropped back into his chair and took up his book. With his eyes on it, he spoke casually:
“Since you are so friendly with Constance, perhaps you can tell me: has she gotten rid of Stegending? Or is he still agonizing?”
David turned pale. “How should I know?” he muttered.
Tom smiled at once, knowing he had hurt him.
“It is always a mere matter of time till they want to marry her. Then,” he chuckled, “it is—as the doctors say—a mere matter of hours.”
David felt the need of striking, as if it had been striking back. Although he had no accurate sense that Tom had attacked him.
“You are funny, Tom. You say I never come back anxious to see you: and you seem to find fault that I’ve been out amusing myself for a change. As if you weren’t out ten times more than I.”
“I go out for business. If I had my way I’d stay home every blessed night. And tell the hostesses to go to blazes.”
“Well, I like to go out for pleasure.”