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."
"Yes. You should have gone, Vic! She'd have satisfied you! Lovely
figure! I never knew a lovelier!"
I said nothing.
"What did you think of her stopping us like that?" he went on after
a minute.
"I thought it consummate cheek," I said. "I should not have believed
it if it hadn't actually happened before my eyes."
"Yes, it was cheeky; but do you know, she is not very cheeky,
really. An awfully nice woman, and very clever. But aren't these
Parisiennes queer? You can't imagine any woman doing such a thing in
England, can you?"
"Hardly.
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