' I thought better of Dr. Foe, Roddy. . . . It seems
so _mean_, somehow, that after what you've told me, Dr. Foe should
be-what shall I say?--accepting this reparation from a man who
happens to be rich!"
Constantia repeated this, in effect, some two or three nights later.
We had danced through a waltz together and agreed to sit out another.
We sat it out, under a palm. It was somewhere in the immediate
neighbourhood of Queen's Gate, and a fashionable band, tired of
modernist tunes, was throbbing out the old _Wiener Blatter_. . . .
If Constantia remembered that sacred tune, she gave no sign of it.
"I thought better--somehow--of your friend," said Constantia.
I gave her a sort of guessing look. "You may take it from me, Con,"
I said, "that the trouble's not there. I'm worried about Jack.
I haven't heard from him for months. But he's not of that make,
whatever he is."
"Are you sure?" she asked. "I feel that I'd like to know. If you
are right, why were he and this Mr. Farrell such close friends?"
"Farrell's pretty impossible, I agree," said I.
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