"Have you seen Miss Jones?" he asked, in his most breathless manner.

Even though I had been speaking with her so recently, I could not immediately grasp, under this style, the ident.i.ty of the person sought.

"The girl we came in with," he muttered impatiently.

"She has just gone off to a night-club."

"Is someone taking her there?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you mean she has gone by herself?"

"That was what she said."

Widmerpool seemed more fussed than ever. I could not understand his concern.

"I don't feel she should have set off like that alone," he said. "She had had rather a lot to drink-more than she is used to, I should imagine-and she is in some sort of difficulty, too. She was telling me about it."

There could be no doubt at all that Widmerpool himself had been equally indiscreet in taking more champagne than usual.

"We were having rather an intimate talk together," he went on. "And then I saw a man I had been wanting to speak to for weeks. Of course, I could have rung him up, but I preferred to wait for a chance meeting. One can often achieve so much more at such moments than at an interview. I crossed the room to have a word with him-explaining to her, as I supposed quite clearly, that I was going to return after a short business discussion-and when I came back she had vanished."

"Too bad."

"That was very foolish of me," said Widmerpool, in a tone almost as if he were apologising abjectly for some grave error of taste. "Rather bad-mannered, too...

He paused, seemingly thoroughly upset: much as he had looked-I called to mind-on the day when he had witnessed Le Bas's arrest when we had been at school together. At the moment when he spoke those words, if I could have laid claim to a more discerning state of mind, I might have taken greater notice of the overwhelming change that had momentarily come over him. As it was, I attributed his excitement simply to drink: an entirely superficial view that even brief reflection could have corrected. For example-to ill.u.s.trate how little excuse there was for my own lack of grasp-I had never before, so far as I can now recollect, heard Widmerpool suggest that anything he had ever done could be cla.s.sed as foolish, or bad-mannered; and even then, on that evening, I suppose I ought to have been dimly aware that Gyspy Jones must have aroused his interest fairly keenly, as it were "on the rebound" from having sugar poured over his head by Barbara.

"There really are moments when one should forget about business," said Widmerpool. "After all, getting on isn't everything."

This precept, so far as I was myself concerned in those days, was one that required no specially vigorous inculcation.

"Pleasure before Business has always been my motto," I remembered Bill Truscott stating at one of Sillery's tea-parties when I was an undergraduate; and, although it would have been misleading to suppose that, for Truscott himself, any such label was in the least-in the smallest degree-applicable, the maxim seemed to me such a truism at the moment when I heard it quoted that I could not imagine why Truscott should seem to consider the phrase, on his part, something of an epigram or paradox. Pleasure still seemed to me a natural enough aim in life; and I certainly did not, on that night in Hill Street, appreciate at all how unusually disturbed Widmerpool must have been to have uttered aloud so profane a repudiation of his own deep-rooted system of opinion. However, he was prevented from further particularising of the factors that had impelled him to this revolutionary conclusion, by the arrival beside us of the man whose practical importance had seemed sufficient to cause abandonment of emotional preoccupations. That person had, so it appeared additional dealings to negotiate. I was interested to discover the ident.i.ty of this figure who had proved, in the circ.u.mstances, so powerful a counter-attraction to the matter in hand. The disclosure was, in a quiet way, sufficiently dramatic. The "man" turned out to be Bill Truscott himself, who seemed, through another's pursuance of his own loudly proclaimed precept, to have been, at least to some degree, temporarily victimised.

When I had last seen him, earlier in the year, at a Rothschild dance chatting with the chaperones, there could be no doubt that Truscott was still a general favourite: a "spare man" treated by everyone with respect and in quite a different, and distinctly higher, category in the hierarchy of male guests from, say, Archie Gilbert. It was, indeed, impossible to deny Truscott's good looks, and the dignity of his wavy, youthfully grey hair and broad shoulders. All the same, the final form of his great career remained still, so far as I knew, undecided. It was not that he was showing signs of turning out less capable-certainly not less reliable-than his elders had supposed; nor, as had been evident on the night when I had seen him, was he growing any less popular with dowagers. On the contrary, many persons, if not all, continued to speak of Truscott's brilliance almost as a matter of course, and it was generally agreed that he was contriving most successfully to retain the delicate balance required to remain a promising young man who still survived in exactly the same place-and a very good place, too-that he had taken on coming down from the university; rather than preferring to make his mark as an innovator in breaking new, and possibly unfruitful, ground in forwarding ambitions that seemed, whatever they were, fated to remain long masked from friends and admirers. At least outwardly, he had neither improved nor worsened his position, so it was said, at least, by Short, who, upon such subjects, could be relied upon to take the entirely unimaginative view of the world in general. In fact, Truscott might still be expected to make name and fortune before he was thirty, though the new decade must be perilously near, and he would have to be quick about it. The promised volume of poems (or possibly belles lettres belles lettres) had never appeared; though there were still those who firmly declared that Truscott would "write something" one day. Meanwhile he was on excellent terms with most people, especially, for some reason, elderly bankers, both married and unmarried, with whom he was, almost without exception, a great favourite.

On that earlier occasion when I had seen him at the dance, Truscott, although he might excusably have forgotten our two or three meetings with Sillery in days past, had dispensed one of those exhausted, engaging smiles for which he was noted; while his eyes wandered round the ballroom "ear-marking d.u.c.h.esses," as Stringham-years later-once called that wistful, haunted intensity that Truscott's eyes took on, from time to time, among any large concourse of people that might include individuals of either s.e.x potentially important to an ambitious young man's career. As he came through the door at that moment, he gave his weary smile again, to show that he still remembered me, saying at the same time to Widmerpool: "You went away so quickly that I had no time to tell you that the Chief will very likely be here to-night. He is an old friend of Milly's. Besides, I happen to know that he told Baby Wentworth he would look in-so it's a virtual certainty."

Truscott was still, so far as I knew, one of the secretaries of Sir Magnus Donners, to whom it was to be presumed he referred as "the Chief." Stringham's vagueness in speaking of his own employment had left me uncertain whether or not he and Truscott remained such close colleagues as formerly, though Sillery's remarks certainly suggested that they were still working together.

"Well, of course, that would be splendid," said Widmerpool slowly.

But, although unquestionably interested in the information just given him, he spoke rather forlornly. His mind seemed to be on other things: unable to concentrate fully on the comings and goings even of so portentous a figure as Sir Magnus Donners.

"He could meet you," Truscott said dryly. "And then we could talk things over next week."

Widmerpool, trying to collect himself, seemed still uncertain in his own mind. He smoothed down his hair, the disarrangement of which he must have observed in the mural looking-gla.s.s in front of us.

"The Chief is the most unconventional man in the world," said Truscott, more encouragingly. "He loves informality."

He stood there, smiling down at Widmerpool, for, although not more than an inch or two taller, he managed to give an impression of height. His thick and glossy hair had grown perceptibly more grey round the ears. I wondered how Truscott and Widmerpool had been brought together, since it was clear that arrangements projected for that night must have been the result of earlier, possibly even laborious, negotiation between them. There could be no doubt, whatever my own opinion of Widmerpool's natural endowments, that he managed to make a decidedly good impression on people primarily interested in "getting on." For example, neither Tompsitt nor Truscott had much in common except concentration on "the main chance," and yet both had apparently been struck-in Tompsitt's case, almost immediately-by some inner belief in Widmerpool's fundamental ability. This matter of making headway in life was one to which I felt perhaps I, too, ought to devote greater consideration in future, if I were myself not to remain inextricably fixed in a monotonous, even sometimes dreary, groove.

"You don't think I had better ring you up in the morning?" said Widmerpool, rather anxiously. "My brain is a bit confused to-night. I don't want to make a poor impression on Sir Magnus. To tell the truth, I was thinking of going home. I don't usually stay up as late as this."

"All right," said Truscott, not attempting to repress a polite smile at the idea of anyone being so weak in spirit as to limit their chances of advancement by reluctance to keep late hours. "Perhaps that might be best. Donners-Brebner, Extension 5, any time after ten o'clock "

"I don't expect it would be much use looking for my hostess to say good-bye," said Widmerpool, gazing about him wildly as if by now tired out. "You know, I haven't managed to meet her properly the whole time I have been here."

"Not the slightest use," said Truscott, smiling again at such naivete.

He regarded Widmerpool as if he thought-now that a decision to retire to bed had been finally taken-that the sooner Widmerpool embarked upon a good night's rest, the better, if he were to be fit for the plans Truscott had in store for him in the near future.

"Then I'll bid you good night," said Widmerpool, turning to me and speaking in a voice of great exhaustion.

"Sweet dreams."

"Tell Stringham I was sorry not to see him before I left the party."

"I will."

"Thank him for bringing us. It was kind. He must lunch with me in the City."

He made his way from the room. I wondered whether or not it had indeed been kind of Stringham to bring him to the party. Kind or the reverse, I felt pretty sure that Stringham would not lunch with Widmerpool in the City. Truscott showed more surprise at Widmerpool's mention of Stringham than he usually allowed himself, at least in public.

"Does he know Charles, then?" he asked, as Widmerpool disappeared through the door.

"We were all at the same house at school."

"Indeed?"

"Widmerpool was a shade senior."

"He really might be quite useful in our new politico-legal branch," said Truscott. "Not necessarily full time-anyway at first-and the Chief always insists on hand-picking everyone himself. He'll grow out of that rather unfortunate manner, of course."

I thought it improbable that Widmerpool would ever change his manner at the mandate of Sir Magnus Donners, Truscott, Stringham, or anyone else, though the projected employment-an aspect of those rather mysterious business activities, so different from those of my own small firm-sounded normal enough. In fact the job, as such, did not at the time make any strong impression on me. I felt more interest in trying to learn something of Stringham's life. This seemed an opportunity to make some inquiries.

"Oh, yes," said Truscott, almost with enthusiasm. "Of course Charles is still with us. He can really be quite an a.s.set at times. Such charm, you know. But I see my Chief has arrived. If you will forgive me ..."

He was gone instantaneously, stepping quickly across the floor to meet, and intercept, a tallish man, who, with Mrs. Wentworth at his side, had just entered the room. At first I was uncertain whether this outwardly unemphatic figure could indeed be Sir Magnus Donners, the person addressed by Truscott being so unlike my pre-conceived idea of what might be expected from the exterior of a public character of that particular kind. Hesitation on this point was justifiable. The name of Sir Magnus Donners, both in capacity of well-known industrialist and former member of the Government (in which he had never reached Cabinet rank) attached to the imagination, almost automatically, one of those paraphrases-on the whole uncomplimentary-presented by the cartoonist; representations that serve, more or less effectually, to supply the mind on easy terms with the supposedly salient traits, personal, social, or political, of individuals or types: such delineations being naturally concerned for the most part with men, or categories of men, to be thought of as important in exercising power in one form or another.

In the first place, it was unexpected that Sir Magnus Donners should look at least ten years younger than might reasonably have been supposed; so that, although well into his middle fifties-where he stood beneath an unsatisfying picture executed in the manner of Derain-he seemed scarcely middle-aged. Clean-shaven, good-looking, rather than the reverse, possibly there was something odd, even a trifle disturbing, about the set of his mouth. Something that perhaps conveyed interior ferment kept in severe repression. Apart from that his features had been reduced, no doubt by laborious mental discipline, to a state of almost unnatural ordinariness. He possessed, however, a suggestion about him that was decidedly parsonic: a lay-reader, or clerical headmaster: even some distinguished athlete, of almost uncomfortably rigid moral convictions, of whose good work at the boys' club in some East End settlement his own close friends were quite unaware. The complexion was of a man whose life appeared to have been lived, on the whole, out of doors. He seemed, indeed, too used to the open air to be altogether at ease in evening clothes, which were carelessly worn, as if only a.s.sumed under protest, though he shared that appearance of almost chemical cleanliness characteristic, in another form, of Archie Gilbert. At the same time, in spite of these intimations of higher things, the heavy, purposeful walk implied the professional politician. A touch of sadness about his face was not unprepossessing.

That ponderous tread was also the only faint hint of the side expressed by common gossip, for example, at Sillery's-where Bill Truscott's connection with Donners-Brebner made Sir Magnus's name a relatively familiar one in the twilight world of undergraduate conversation-that is to say, of a kind of stage "profiteer" or "tyc.o.o.n": a man of Big Business and professionally strong will. Such, indeed, I had previously pictured him. Now the matter, like so many others, had to be reconsidered. Equally, he showed still less of that aspect called up by the remark once let fall by Stringham: "He is always trying to get in with my mother." Everything about Sir Magnus seemed far too quiet and correct for any of his elements even to insinuate that there could be in his conduct, or nature, anything that might urge him to push his way into a world where welcome admission might be questionable-even deliberately withheld. Indeed, much later, when I came to hear more about him,' there could be no doubt that whatever efforts Sir Magnus may have made to ingratiate himself with Mrs. Foxe, through her son, or otherwise-and there was reason to suppose such efforts had in truth been made-must have been accountable to one of those whims to which men of his sort are particularly subject; that is to say, desire to cut a figure somewhere outside the circle familiar to themselves; because Sir Magnus was, after all, in a position, so far as that went, to "go" pretty well anywhere he might happen to wish. The social process he elected to follow was rather like that of mountaineers who chose deliberately the sheer ascent of the cliff face; for it was true I found particular difficulty in a.s.sociating him with Stringham, or, so far as I knew of them, with Stringham's family. Widmerpool, on the other hand, though this was by the way, was a victim easily imaginable; no doubt, as I guessed, fated to-be captivated irrevocably at his pending interview by that colourless, respectable, dominating exterior of "the Chief."

What part Mrs. Wentworth played in Sir Magnus's life was, of course, a question that at once suggested itself. He was not married. Truscott's words: "He told Baby Wentworth he would look in-so it's a virtual certainty," seemed to imply a fairly firm influence, or attachment, of one kind or another, probably temporary. However, as Sir Magnus and Mrs. Wentworth came through the door, side by side, there was nothing in their outward appearance to denote pleasure in each other's company. On the contrary, they had entered the room together, both of them, with an almost hang-dog air, and Mrs. Wentworth's features had lost all the gaiety and animation a.s.sumed earlier to charm Prince Theodoric. She now appeared sulky, and, if the word could be used at all of someone so self-possessed, and of such pleasing face and figure, almost awkward. It was rather as if they were walking away together from some excessively embarra.s.sing scene in which they had been taking joint part: some incident for which the two of them felt both equally to blame, and heartily ashamed. I could not help thinking of one of those pictures-neither traditional, nor in Mr. Deacon's vernacular, but in "modern dress" a pictorial method of treating Biblical subjects then somewhat in vogue-of Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden after the Fall: this impression being so vivid that I almost expected them to be followed through the door by a well-tailored angel, pointing in their direction a flaming sword.

Any such view of them was not only entirely fanciful, but perhaps also without any foundation in fact, because Truscott seemed to regard their bearing as perfectly normal. He came up to them buoyantly, and talked for a minute or two in his accustomed easy style. Mrs. Wentworth lit a cigarette, and, without smiling, watched him, her eyebrows slightly raised. Then she spoke to Sir Magnus, at which he nodded his head heavily several rimes. Perhaps arrangements were-being made for sending her home in his car, because he looked at his watch before saying good night, and asked Truscott some questions. Then Mrs. Wentworth, after giving Sir Magnus little more than a nod, went off with Truscott; who returned a minute or two later, and settled down with his employer on the sofa. They began to talk gravely, looking rather like father and son, though, strangely enough, it might have been Truscott who was playing the paternal role.

By now the crowd had thinned considerably, and the music of the hunchback's accordion had ceased. I was beginning to feel more than a little exhausted, yet, unable to make up my mind to go home, I wandered rather aimlessly round the house, throughout which the remaining guests were now sitting about in pairs, or larger groups. Chronological sequence of events pertaining to this interlude of the party became afterwards somewhat confused in my head. I can recall a brief conversation with a woman-not pretty, though possessing excellent legs-on the subject of cheese, which she alleged to be unprocurable, at the buffet. Prince Theodoric and Sillery had disappeared, and already there was the impression, given by most parties, sooner or later, that the residue still a.s.sembled under Mrs. Andriadis's roof was gradually, inexorably, sinking to a small band of those hard cases who can never tear themselves away from what still remains, for an hour or so longer, if not of gaiety, then at least some sort of mellow companionship, and protection from the austerities of the outer world.

Two young men strolled by, and I heard one of them say: "Poor Milly really got together quite an elegant crowd to-night."

The other, who wore an orchid in his b.u.t.ton-hole, replied: "I felt that Sillery imparted a faintly bourgeois note-and there were one or two extraordinary figures from the lofts of Chelsea."

He added that, personally, he proposed to have "one more drink" before leaving, while the other murmured something about an invitation to "bacon and eggs at the Kit-Cat." They parted company at this, and when the young man with the orchid returned from the bar, he set down his gla.s.s near me, and without further introduction, began to discuss, at large, the house's style of decoration, of which he appeared strongly to disapprove.

"Of course it must have cost a fortune to have had all those carpets cut right up to the walls," he said. "But why go and spoil everything by these appalling Italianate fittings-and the pictures-my G.o.d, the pictures."

I asked if the house belonged to Mrs. Andriadis.

"Good heavens, no," he said. "Milly has only taken it for a few months from a man named Duport."

"Bob Duport?"

"Not an intimate friend of yours, I hope?"

"On the contrary."

"Because his manners don't attract me."

"Nor me."

"Not that I ever see him these days, but we were at the same college-before he was sent down."

I commented to the effect that, however unsatisfactory its decoration might be, I found the house an unexpectedly sumptuous place for Duport to inhabit. The young man with the orchid immediately a.s.sured me that Duport was not short of money.

"He came into quite a bit," he said. "And then he is one of those men money likes. He is in the Balkans at the moment-doing well there, too, I have no doubt. He is, I regret to say, that sort of man."

He sighed, "Is he married?"

"Rather a nice wife."

Although I scarcely knew Bob Duport, he had always remained in my mind on account of his having been one of the company when Peter Templer, in a recently purchased car, had driven Stringham and myself into the ditch, together with a couple of shop-girls and another unprepossessing friend of Templer's called Brent. That episode had been during the single term that Stringham had remained in residence at the university. The incident seemed absurd enough when looked back upon, but I had not greatly liked Duport. Now I felt, for some reason, inexplicably annoyed that he should own a house like this one, however ineptly decorated, and also be the possessor of a wife whom my informant-whose manner suggested absolute infallibility on such matters-regarded as attractive; while I myself, at the same time, lived a comparative hand-to-mouth existence in rooms, in my own case, there had never been any serious prospect of getting married. This seemed, on examination, a contrast from which I came out rather poorly.

Since living in London, I had seen Peter Templer several rimes, but, in the course of an interminable chain of anecdotes about his ever-changing circle of cronies, I could not remember the name of Duport figuring, so that I did not know whether or not the two of them continued to see each other. Peter himself had taken to the city like a duck to water. He now talked unendingly of "cleaning up a packet" and "making a killing"; money, with its multifarious imagery and restrictive mystique, holding a place in his mind only seriously rivalled by preoccupation with the pursuit of women: the latter interest having proportionately increased with opportunity to experiment in a wider field than formerly.

When we had lunched or dined together, the occasions had been enjoyable, although there had hardly been any renewal of the friendship that had existed between us at school. Peter did not frequent the world of dances because-like Stringham-he was bored by their unduly respectable environment.

"At least," he said once, when discussing the matter, "I don't go as a habit to the sort of dance you see reported in The Morning Post The Morning Post or or The Times The Times. I don't say I have never attended similar entertainments in some huge and gloomy house in Bayswater or Holland Park-probably Jewish-if I happened to take a fancy to a girl who moves in those circles. There is more fun to be found amongst all that mahogany furniture and Moorish bra.s.swork than you might think."

In business, at least in a small way, he had begun to "make a bit on his own, and there seemed no reason to disbelieve his account of himself as looked upon in his firm as a promising young man. In fact, it appeared that Peter, so far from becoming the outcast from society prophesied by our housemaster, Le Bas, now showed every sign of being about to prove himself a notable success in life: an outcome that seemed to demand another of those revisions of opinion, made every day more necessary, in relation to such an enormous amount of material, accepted as incontrovertible at an earlier period of practical experience.

Thinking that if the young man with the orchid knew Duport, he might also know Peter, whom I had not by then seen for about a year, I asked if the two of them had ever met.

"I've never run across Templer," he said. "But I've heard tell of him. As a matter of fact, I believe Duport married Templer's sister, didn't he? What was her name?"

"Jean."

"That was it. A thin girl with blue eyes. I think they got married abroad-South America or somewhere, was it?"

The sudden awareness of displeasure felt a second earlier at the apparent prosperity of Duport's general state was nothing to the pang I suffered on hearing this piece of news: the former sense of grievance caused, perhaps, by premonition that worse was to come. I had not, it was true, thought much of Jean Templer for years, having relegated any question of being, as I had once supposed, "in love" with her to a comparatively humble position in memory; indeed, regarding the incident as dating from a time when any such feelings were, in my own eyes, hopelessly immature, in comparison, for example, with sentiments felt for Barbara. However, I now found, rather to my own surprise, deep vexation in the discovery that Jean was the wife of someone so unsympathetic as Bob Duport.

Such emotions, sudden bursts of s.e.xual jealousy that pursue us through life, sometimes without the smallest justification that memory or affection might provide, are like wounds, unknown and quiescent, that suddenly break out to give pain, or at least irritation, at a later season of the year, or in an unfamiliar climate. The party, and the young man with the orchid, supplied perfect setting for an attack of that kind. I was about to return to the subject of Duport, with a view to relieving this sense of annoyance by further unfavourable comment regarding his personality (as it had appeared to me in the past) in the hope that my views would find ready agreement, when I became suddenly aware that Stringham and Mrs. Andriadis were together engaged in vehement argument just beside the place we sat.

"But, sweetie," Mrs. Andriadis was saying, "you can't possibly want to go to the Emba.s.sy now now."

"But the odd thing is," said Stringham, speaking slowly and deliberately, "the odd thing is that is just what I do want to do. I want to go to the Emba.s.sy at once at once. Without further delay."

"But it will be closed."

"I am rather glad to hear that. I never really liked the Emba.s.sy. I shall go somewhere else."

"But you said it was just the Emba.s.sy you wanted to go to."

"I can't think why. I really want to go somewhere quite different"

"You really are being too boring for words, Charles."

"I quite agree," said Stringham, suddenly changing his tone. "The fact is I am much too boring to stay at a party. That is exactly how I feel myself. Especially one of your parties, Milly-one of your charming, gay, exquisite, unrivalled parties. I cast a gloom over the merry scene. 'Who is that corpse at the feast?' people ask, and the reply is 'Poor old Stringham'."

"But you wouldn't feel any better at the Emba.s.sy, darling, even if it were open."

"You are probably right. In fact, I should certainly feel no better at the Emba.s.sy. I should feel worse. That is why I am going somewhere much lower than that. Somewhere really frightful."

"You are being very silly."

"The Forty-Three would be too stuffy-In all senses-for my present mood."

"You can't want to go to the Forty-Three."

"I repeat that I do not want to go to the Forty-Three. I am at the moment looking into my soul to examine the interesting question of where exactly I do want to go."

"Wherever it is, I shall come too."

"As you wish, Milly. As you wish. As a matter of fact I was turning over the possibilities of a visit to Mrs. Fitz." you wish, Milly. As you wish. As a matter of fact I was turning over the possibilities of a visit to Mrs. Fitz."

"Charles, you are impossible."

I suppose he had had a good deal to drink, though this was, in a way, beside the point, for I knew from past experience that he could be just as perverse in his behaviour when there had been no question of drinking. If he were a little drunk, apart from making a slight bow, he showed no physical sign of such a condition. Mrs. Andriadis, who was evidently determined to master the situation-and who still, in her own particular style, managed to remain rather dazzling, in spite of being obviously put out by this altercation-turned to one of the men-servants who happened to be pa.s.sing at that moment, carrying a tray laden with gla.s.ses, and said: "Go and get my coat-and be quick about it."

The man, an old fellow with a blotched face, who had perhaps taken the opportunity to sample the champagne himself more freely than had been wise, stared at her, and, setting down the tray, ambled slowly off. Stringham caught sight of us sitting near-by. He took a step towards me.

"At least I can rely on you, Nick, as an old friend," he said, "to accompany me to a haunt of vice. Somewhere where the stains on the table-cloth make the flesh creep-some cellar far below the level of the street, where ageing harlots caper cheerlessly to the discordant strains of jazz."

Mrs. Andriadis grasped at once that we had known each other for a long time, because she smiled with one of those looks of captivating and whole-hearted sincerity that must have contributed in no small degree to her adventurous career. I was conscious that heavy artillery was now ranged upon my position. At the same time she managed to present herself-as it were, stood before me-in her weakness, threatened by Stringham's behaviour certainly aggravating enough, remarking softly: "Do tell him not to be such an a.s.s.

Stringham, too, perfectly took in the situation, evidently deciding immediately, and probably correctly, that if any kind of discussion were allowed to develop between the three of us, Mrs. Andriadis would, in some manner, bring him to heel. There had been, presumably, some collision of wills between them in the course of the evening; probably the consequence of mutual irritation extending over weeks, or even months. Perhaps he had deliberately intended to provoke a quarrel when he had arrived at the house that evening. The situation had rather the appearance of something of the sort. It was equally possible that he was suffering merely from the same kind of restlessness that had earlier afflicted Gypsy Jones. I did not know. In any case, though no business of mine, a break between them might be for the best. However, no time remained to weigh such question in the balance, because Stringham did not wait. He laughed loudly, and went off through the door. Mrs. Andriadis took my arm.