It was thus that Tony found him an hour later when he strolled into the
_salle_, looking somewhat at a loose end and rather sorry for himself.
"Going to the tables to-night?" he asked, pausing irresolutely at Eliot's
side.
Eliot glanced up.
"No. Are you? You do most nights, don't you?" He recollected having seen
Tony's flushed, eager face opposite him at one or other of the tables on a
good many occasions.
"No. Feel off it to-night. Besides"--with a frown--"I've dropped an awful
lot of money at it lately. May I sit down?" he added, laying his hand on
the back of a chair.
Coventry put down his newspaper. It was obvious the boy wanted to talk, to
unburden himself of something. Better let him get it over and have done
with it, he reflected. A word of encouragement and the whole story came
out. Tony, it appeared, was feeling hipped. The Nevilles were leaving
Mentone, a new doctor who had been consulted having advised a more bracing
climate for Lady Doreen, and simultaneously Sir Philip had announced his
decision to return to London--a combination of events which had succeeded
in reducing Tony to unplumbed depths of despondency.
"It's rather a break-up, you see," he explained, "after nearly three months
here together.
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