The young officer rose with a glance towards the clock.
"No," he said, "he was not. He did other things afterwards which made it
quite impossible for a man with any self-respect whatever to look upon
him as a friend."
"Did he," asked Mrs. Agar, "say anything about her personal appearance?
Was it that?"
The subaltern looked puzzled. It was as well for Mrs. Agar that he was
not a man of deep experience. Instead of being puzzled he might suddenly
have seen clear.
"No--no," he replied. "It was not that. It was merely a matter of
expediency, I believe."
But, womanlike, Mrs. Agar did not believe him. She sat while he made his
farewell speech over the whist-table, but as he went to the door she rose
and followed him slowly.
In the hall she watched the servant help him on with his coat--her
features twisted into a stereotype smile of polite leave-taking.
"By the way," she said, with a sickening little laugh, "what was the
man's name--your friend, whom you lost?"
"Michael--Seymour Michael.
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