Orde laughed.
"You don't like him," he stated.
"I don't dislike him," said Carroll. "I've not a thing against him.
But we could never be in the slightest degree sympathetic. He and I
don't--don't--"
"Don't jibe," Orde finished for her. "I didn't much think you
would. Joe never was much of a society bug." It was on the tip of
Carroll's tongue to reply that "society bugs" were not the only sort
she could appreciate, but she refrained. She had begun to realise
the extent of her influence over her husband's opinion.
Newmark did not live at the hotel. Early in the fall he had rented
a small one-story house situated just off Main Street, set well back
from the sidewalk among clumps of oleanders. Into this he retired
as a snail into its shell. At first he took his meals at the hotel,
but later he imported an impassive, secretive man-servant, who took
charge of him completely. Neither master nor man made any friends,
and in fact rebuffed all advances. One Sunday, Carroll and Orde,
out for a walk, passed this quaint little place, with its picket
fence.
"Let's go in and return Joe's call," suggested Orde.
Their knock at the door brought the calm valet.
"Mr. Newmark is h'out, sir," said he.
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