“I have just come in,” Paulton said. “In all my life I don’t recollect such an awful storm as this, except once in the Jura, when I was out boar-shooting. How fortunate it didn’t start while the pigeon-shooting was on to-day.”
He turned to me suddenly.
“By the way, Ashton,” he said familiarly, “we have a mutual friend, I think.”
“Indeed?” I answered drily. “Who is that?”
“Sir Charles Thorold’s daughter, Miss Vera.”
I was astonished at this effrontery—so astounded that my surprise outweighed my feeling of indignation at the tone of familiarity in which he spoke of Vera. He might have been referring to some barmaid we both knew.
I think he detected my annoyance, but he said nothing. After a pause I replied, keeping myself in check—
“Is Miss Thorold a friend of yours?”
“A friend of mine? Rather. I should say so!”
He glanced across at Henderson, and they both smiled significantly. This was intolerable.