You've to let him know. He's an odd fellow! Reminds me of that story of
the young Don at Cambridge who spent all the time he could spare from
neglecting his duties in adorning his person. And yet that doesn't hit
it quite either. For I don't suppose he does spend much time in adorning
his person. He doesn't want it. He's such a splendid looking chap to
begin with. But I'm sure his duties have a poor time! Why, he told
me--me, an utter stranger!--as we went downstairs--that being a
landowner was the most boring trade in the world. He hated his tenants,
and turned all the bother of them over to his agents. "But they don't
hate me"--he said--"because I don't put the screw on. I'm rich enough
without." By Jove, he's a queer specimen!'

And Sarratt laughed out, remembering some further items of the
conversation on the stairs.

'Whom are you discussing?' said a cold voice in the background.

It was Bridget Cookson's voice, and the husband and wife turned to greet
her. The day was balmy--June at its best. But Bridget as she came in had
the look of someone rasped with east wind. Nelly noticed too that since
her marriage, Bridget had developed an odd habit of not looking her--or
George--straight in the face. She looked sideways, as though determined
to avoid the mere sight of their youth and happiness. 'Is she going to
make a quarrel of it all our lives?' thought Nelly impatiently. 'And
when George is so nice to her! How can she be so silly!'

'We were talking about our visitor who has just left,' said Sarratt,
clearing a chair for his sister-in-law. 'Ah, you came from the other
direction, you just missed him.'