Phoebe Raymond tried to engage him in talk.
“My husband and I were in Maine at the time. Do you know New England, Mr. Markand?”
“Of course he knows it! Can’t you see it written all over him, Phoebe?” It was Tom drawing her away. “How dare you talk to my friend about your husband! Have you no sense of decency?”
The immediate half of the table was his. He played it like an instrument. His eyes were too bright and too hard, thought David. He had little to say to him. To Durthal and to Lunn, to the women on David’s side, to Hill even and Lagora, he had more to say than to David. Most of all to Korn. But he looked often at his friend—sharp glances while his attention swathed from right to left. David was enmeshed in his running comment: all Tom said seemed to run through him and knit him.
“It is hard not to be moral,” he said. “One is pushed so into good behavior.”
Jack Korn sat back smiling. He was a strong man. He was very quiet.
“What do you think of good behavior, Korn?” Tom asked him.
“It is as good a game as another.” He paused. “Surer.”
“But why should we want to be sure? Since we are already sure of death? Look at Dounia, there. She has never done a risky thing in her life. Run over her investments. Burton, Klein, La Soule—all good gold bonds. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, my dear. You remind me of Markand’s uptown relations.”
“And what are you crowing about?” Dounia retorted. “You’re as safe as an eel.”