He is married. He married a widow who has an ear-trumpet and a big
shooting in Scotland. If she could be induced to crawl in underwood, or
stand on a cairn against a skyline, I'm sure he'd pot at her for the fun
of the thing."
"What is his name?" asked Sir Donald.
"I didn't catch it. My host called him Leo. He has--"
"Ah! He is my only son."
Pierce looked very uncomfortable, but Carey replied calmly:
"Really. I wonder he hasn't shot you long ago."
Sir Donald smiled.
"Doesn't he depress you?" added Carey.
"He does, I'm sorry to say, but scarcely so much as I depress him."
"I think Lady Holme would like him."
For once Sir Donald looked really expressive, of surprise and disgust.
"Oh, I can't think so!" he said.
"Yes, yes, she would. She doesn't care honestly for art-loving men. Her
idea of a real man, the sort of man a woman marries, or bolts with, or
goes off her head for, is a huge mass of bones and muscles and thews and
sinews that knows not beauty. And your son would adore her, Sir Donald.
Better not let him, though. Holme's a jealous devil."
"Totally without reason," said Pierce, with a touch of bitterness.
"No doubt. It's part of his Grand Turk nature. He ought to possess a
Yildiz. He's out of place in London where marital jealousy is more
unfashionable than pegtop trousers."
He buried himself in his glass. Sir Donald rose to go.
"I hope I may see you again," he said rather tentatively at parting.
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