Townsend, looking down on her with his laughing eyes, suddenly remembered.
“What is she like?” he had inquired when his wife told him she had met Dr. Fane’s bride.
“Oh, quite a nice little thing. Actressy.”
“Was she on the stage?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her father’s a doctor or a lawyer or something. I suppose we shall have to ask them to dinner.”
“There’s no hurry, is there?”
When they were sitting side by side at table he told her that he had known Walter Fane ever since he came to the Colony.
“We play bridge together. He’s far and away the best bridge player at the Club.”
She told Walter on the way home.
“That’s not saying very much, you know.”
“How does he play?”
“Not badly. He plays a winning hand very well, but when he has bad cards he goes all to pieces.”
“Does he play as well as you?”
“I have no illusions about my play. I should describe myself as a very good player in the second class. Townsend thinks he’s in the first. He isn’t.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“I neither like him nor dislike him. I believe he’s not bad at his job and every one says he’s a good sportsman. He doesn’t very much interest me.”
It was not the first time that Walter’s moderation had exasperated her. She asked herself why it was necessary to be so prudent: you either liked people or you didn’t. She had liked Charles Town-
