The mention of the family was too much for Sally. She had to stop talking in order to allow her mind to clear itself of rude thoughts. “Mr. Kemp was telling me about Mr. Scrymgeour,” she went on at length. Bruce Carmyle stared for a moment at the yard or so of French bread which the waiter had placed on the table. “Indeed?” he said. “He has an engaging lack of reticence.” The waiter returned bearing soup and dumped it down. “V'la!” he observed, with the satisfied air of a man who has successfully performed a difficult conjuring trick. He smiled at Sally expectantly, as though confident of applause from this section of his audience at least. But Sally's face was set and rigid. She had been snubbed, and the sensation was as pleasant as it was novel. “I think Mr. Kemp had hard luck,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I would prefer not to discuss the matter.” Mr. Carmyle's attitude was that Sally might be a pretty girl, but she was a stranger, and the intimate affairs of the Family were not to be discussed with strangers, however prepossessing. “He was quite in the right. Mr. Scrymgeour was beating a dog...” “I've heard the details.” “Oh, I didn't know that. Well, don't you agree with me, then?” “I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simply because...” “Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk about it.” “Quite.” “Still, there's no harm in asking what you propose to do about Gin--about Mr. Kemp.” Mr. Carmyle became more glacial. “I'm afraid I cannot discuss...” Sally's quick impatience, nobly restrained till now, finally got the better of her. “Oh, for goodness' sake,” she snapped, “do try to be human, and don't always be snubbing people. You remind me of one of those portraits of men in the eighteenth century, with wooden faces, who look out of heavy gold frames at you with fishy eyes as if you were a regrettable incident.” “Rosbif,” said the waiter genially, manifesting himself suddenly beside them as if he had popped up out of a trap. Bruce Carmyle attacked his roast beef morosely. Sally who was in the mood when she knew that she would be ashamed of herself later on, but was full of battle at the moment, sat in silence. “I am sorry,” said Mr. Carmyle ponderously, “if my eyes are fishy. The fact has not been called to my attention before.” “I suppose you never had any sisters,” said Sally. “They would have told you.” Mr. Carmyle relapsed into an offended dumbness, which lasted till the waiter had brought the coffee. “I think,” said Sally, getting up, “I'll be going now. I don't seem to want any coffee, and, if I stay on, I may say something rude. I thought I might be able to put in a good word for Mr. Kemp and save him from being massacred, but apparently it's no use. Good-bye, Mr. Carmyle, and thank you for giving me dinner.” She made her way down the car, followed by Bruce Carmyle's indignant, yet fascinated, gaze. Strange emotions were stirring in Mr. Carmyle's bosom.