“He was quite in the right. Mr. Scrymgeour was beating a dog...”
“I've heard the details.”
“Oh, I didn't know that. Well, don't you agree with me, then?”
“I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simply because...”
“Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk about it.”
“Quite.”
“Still, there's no harm in asking what you propose to do about Gin—about Mr. Kemp.”
Mr. Carmyle became more glacial.
“I'm afraid I cannot discuss...”
Sally's quick impatience, nobly restrained till now, finally got the better of her.
“Oh, for goodness' sake,” she snapped, “do try to be human, and don't always be snubbing people. You remind me of one of those portraits of men in the eighteenth century, with wooden faces, who look out of heavy gold frames at you with fishy eyes as if you were a regrettable incident.”
“Rosbif,” said the waiter genially, manifesting himself suddenly beside them as if he had popped up out of a trap.
Bruce Carmyle attacked his roast beef morosely. Sally who was in the mood when she knew that she would be ashamed of herself later on, but was full of battle at the moment, sat in silence.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Carmyle ponderously, “if my eyes are fishy. The fact has not been called to my attention before.”
“I suppose you never had any sisters,” said Sally. “They would have told you.”
Mr. Carmyle relapsed into an offended dumbness, which lasted till the waiter had brought the coffee.
“I think,” said Sally, getting up, “I'll be going now. I don't seem to want
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