off with him in the opposite direction.
Chapter VII - Portrait of a Gentleman
*
They walked in silence for a little, until they had left the house and
gardens well behind them. In front of them and to the right the park
dipped and then rose slowly, shutting out the rest of the world. A thick
belt of trees on the left divided them from the main road.
"Ever been here before?" said Antony suddenly.
"Oh, rather. Dozens of times."
"I meant just here where we are now. Or do you stay indoors and play
billiards all the time?"
"Oh Lord, no!"
"Well, tennis and things. So many people with beautiful parks never by
any chance use them, and all the poor devils passing by on the dusty
road think how lucky the owners are to have them, and imagine them doing
all sorts of jolly things inside." He pointed to the right. "Ever been
over there?"
Bill laughed, as if a little ashamed.
"Well, not very much. I've often been along here, of course, because
it's the short way to the village."
"Yes.... All right; now tell me something about Mark."
"What sort of things?"
"Well, never mind about his being your host, or about your being a
perfect gentleman, or anything like that. Cut out the Manners for Men,
and tell me what you think of Mark, and how you like staying with him,
and how many rows your little house-party has had this week, and how you
get on with Cayley, and all the rest of it."
Bill looked at him eagerly.
"I say, are you being the complete detective?"
"Well, I wanted a new profession," smiled the other.
"What fun! I mean," he corrected himself apologetically, "one oughtn't
to say that, when there's a man dead in the house, and one's host—"
He broke off a little uncertainly, and then rounded off his period by
saying again, "By Jove, what a rum show it is. Good Lord!"
"Well?" said Antony. "Carry on, Mark"
"What do I think of him?"
"Yes."
Bill was silent, wondering how to put into words thoughts which had
never formed themselves very definitely in his own mind. What did he
think of Mark? Seeing his hesitation, Antony said:
"I ought to have warned you that nothing that you say will be taken down
by the reporters, so you needn't bother about a split infinitive or two.
Talk about anything you like, how you like. Well, I'll give you a start.
Which do you enjoy more a week-end here or at the Barrington's, say?"
"Well; of course, that would depend—"
"Take it that she was there in both cases."
"Ass," said Bill, putting an elbow into Antony's ribs. "It's a little
difficult to say," he went on. "Of course they do you awfully well
here."
"Yes."
"I don't think I know any house where things are so comfortable. One's
room—the food—drinks—cigars—the way everything's arranged: All that
sort of thing. They look after you awfully well."
"Yes?"
"Yes." He repeated it slowly to himself, as if it had given him a new
idea: "They look after you awfully well. Well, that's just what it is
about Mark. That's one of his little ways. Weaknesses. Looking after
you."
"Arranging things for you?"
"Yes. Of course, it's a delightful house, and there's plenty to do, and
opportunities for every game or sport that's ever been invented, and,
as I say, one gets awfully well done; but with it all, Tony, there's
a faint sort of feeling that well, that one is on parade, as it were.
You've got to do as you're told."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, Mark fancies himself rather at arranging things. He arranges
things, and it's understood that the guests fall in with the
arrangement. For instance, Betty—Miss Calladine—and I were going to
play a single just before tea, the other day. Tennis. She's frightfully
hot stuff at tennis, and backed herself to take me on level. I'm rather
erratic, you know. Mark saw us going out with our rackets and asked us
what we were going to do. Well, he'd got up a little tournament for
us after tea—handicaps all arranged by him, and everything ruled out
neatly in red and black ink—prizes and all—quite decent ones,
Chapter VII - Portrait of a Gentleman
*
They walked in silence for a little, until they had left the house and
gardens well behind them. In front of them and to the right the park
dipped and then rose slowly, shutting out the rest of the world. A thick
belt of trees on the left divided them from the main road.
"Ever been here before?" said Antony suddenly.
"Oh, rather. Dozens of times."
"I meant just here where we are now. Or do you stay indoors and play
billiards all the time?"
"Oh Lord, no!"
"Well, tennis and things. So many people with beautiful parks never by
any chance use them, and all the poor devils passing by on the dusty
road think how lucky the owners are to have them, and imagine them doing
all sorts of jolly things inside." He pointed to the right. "Ever been
over there?"
Bill laughed, as if a little ashamed.
"Well, not very much. I've often been along here, of course, because
it's the short way to the village."
"Yes.... All right; now tell me something about Mark."
"What sort of things?"
"Well, never mind about his being your host, or about your being a
perfect gentleman, or anything like that. Cut out the Manners for Men,
and tell me what you think of Mark, and how you like staying with him,
and how many rows your little house-party has had this week, and how you
get on with Cayley, and all the rest of it."
Bill looked at him eagerly.
"I say, are you being the complete detective?"
"Well, I wanted a new profession," smiled the other.
"What fun! I mean," he corrected himself apologetically, "one oughtn't
to say that, when there's a man dead in the house, and one's host—"
He broke off a little uncertainly, and then rounded off his period by
saying again, "By Jove, what a rum show it is. Good Lord!"
"Well?" said Antony. "Carry on, Mark"
"What do I think of him?"
"Yes."
Bill was silent, wondering how to put into words thoughts which had
never formed themselves very definitely in his own mind. What did he
think of Mark? Seeing his hesitation, Antony said:
"I ought to have warned you that nothing that you say will be taken down
by the reporters, so you needn't bother about a split infinitive or two.
Talk about anything you like, how you like. Well, I'll give you a start.
Which do you enjoy more a week-end here or at the Barrington's, say?"
"Well; of course, that would depend—"
"Take it that she was there in both cases."
"Ass," said Bill, putting an elbow into Antony's ribs. "It's a little
difficult to say," he went on. "Of course they do you awfully well
here."
"Yes."
"I don't think I know any house where things are so comfortable. One's
room—the food—drinks—cigars—the way everything's arranged: All that
sort of thing. They look after you awfully well."
"Yes?"
"Yes." He repeated it slowly to himself, as if it had given him a new
idea: "They look after you awfully well. Well, that's just what it is
about Mark. That's one of his little ways. Weaknesses. Looking after
you."
"Arranging things for you?"
"Yes. Of course, it's a delightful house, and there's plenty to do, and
opportunities for every game or sport that's ever been invented, and,
as I say, one gets awfully well done; but with it all, Tony, there's
a faint sort of feeling that well, that one is on parade, as it were.
You've got to do as you're told."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, Mark fancies himself rather at arranging things. He arranges
things, and it's understood that the guests fall in with the
arrangement. For instance, Betty—Miss Calladine—and I were going to
play a single just before tea, the other day. Tennis. She's frightfully
hot stuff at tennis, and backed herself to take me on level. I'm rather
erratic, you know. Mark saw us going out with our rackets and asked us
what we were going to do. Well, he'd got up a little tournament for
us after tea—handicaps all arranged by him, and everything ruled out
neatly in red and black ink—prizes and all—quite decent ones,
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