XIII

“Has Mr. Dean come in?”

“No, Sir Owen.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Dinner is quite ready?”

“Quite ready, Sir Owen.”

“I don’t think there is any good in waiting.  Something must have detained Mr. Dean.”

“Very well, Sir Owen.”

The butler left the room surprised, for if there was one thing that Sir Owen hated it was to dine by himself, yet Owen had not screamed out a single blasphemy, or even muttered a curse, and wondering at his master’s strange resignation, the butler crossed the hall, hoping Sir Owen’s health was not run down.  He put the evening paper by Sir Owen, for there had been some important racing that day, and sometimes Sir Owen would talk quite affably.  There were other times when he would not say a word, and this was one of them.  He pushed the paper away, and went on eating, irritated by the sound of his knife and fork on his plate, the only sound in the dining-room, for the footmen went silently over the thick pile carpet, receiving their directions by a gesture from the great butler.

After dinner Owen had recourse to the evening paper, and he read it, and every other paper in his room, advertisements and all, asking himself what the devil had happened to Ulick.  Some of his operatic friends must have asked him to dinner.  A moment after it seemed to him that Ulick was treating his house like a hotel.  “Damn him! he might have easily sent me a telegram.”  At half-past ten the footman brought in the whisky, and Owen sat sipping his drink, smoking cigars, and wondering why Ulick had net come home for dinner; and the clock had struck half-past eleven before Ulick’s latchkey was heard in the door.

“I hope you didn’t wait dinner for me?”

“We waited a little while.  Where have you been?”

“She asked me to stay to dinner.”

“Oh, she asked you to stay to dinner!” Such a simple explanation of Ulick’s absence Owen hadn’t thought of, and, reading his face, Ulick hastened to tell him that after dinner they had gone to a concert.

“Well, I suppose you were right to go with her; the concert must have been a great break in her life....  Sitting there all the evening, writing letters, trying to get situations for drunken men, girl mothers, philanthropy of every kind.  How she must have enjoyed the concert!  Tell me about it; and tell me how she was dressed.”

Ulick had not remarked Evelyn’s dress very particularly, and Owen was angry with him for only being able to tell him that she wore a pale silk of a faint greenish colour.

“And her cloak?”

“Oh, her cloak was all right; it seemed warm enough.”

Owen wanted to know what jewellery she wore, and complained that she had sold all the jewellery he had given her for the nuns.  Ulick was really sorry for him.  Now, what did she think of the singing?  To please him Ulick attributed all his criticism of the singers to Evelyn, and Owen said: