“You think that's simple, do you? I suppose you imagine that a girl enjoys that sort of thing? Oh, what's the use of talking about it? It's horrible, and no amount of arguing will make it anything else. Do let's change the subject. How did you like Chicago?” “Oh, all right. Rather a grubby sort of place.” “So I've always heard. But you ought not to mind that, being a Londoner.” “Oh, I didn't mind it. As a matter of fact, I had rather a good time. Saw one or two shows, you know. Got in on my face as your brother's representative, which was all to the good. By the way, it's rummy how you run into people when you move about, isn't it?” “You talk as if you had been dashing about the streets with your eyes shut. Did you meet somebody you knew?” “Chap I hadn't seen for years. Was at school with him, as a matter of fact. Fellow named Foster. But I expect you know him, too, don't you? By name, at any rate. He wrote your brother's show.” Sally's heart jumped. “Oh! Did you meet Gerald--Foster?” “Ran into him one night at the theatre.” “And you were really at school with him?” “Yes. He was in the footer team with me my last year.” “Was he a scrum-half, too?” asked Sally, dimpling. Ginger looked shocked. “You don't have two scrum-halves in a team,” he said, pained at this ignorance on a vital matter. “The scrum-half is the half who works the scrum and...” “Yes, you told me that at Roville. What was Gerald--Mr. Foster then? A six and seven-eighths, or something?” “He was a wing-three,” said Ginger with a gravity befitting his theme. “Rather fast, with a fairly decent swerve. But he would not learn to give the reverse pass inside to the centre.” “Ghastly!” said Sally. “If,” said Ginger earnestly, “a wing's bottled up by his wing and the back, the only thing he can do, if he doesn't want to be bundled into touch, is to give the reverse pass.” “I know,” said Sally. “If I've thought that once, I've thought it a hundred times. How nice it must have been for you meeting again. I suppose you had all sorts of things to talk about?” Ginger shook his head. “Not such a frightful lot. We were never very thick. You see, this chap Foster was by way of being a bit of a worm.” “What!” “A tick,” explained Ginger. “A rotter. He was pretty generally barred at school. Personally, I never had any use for him at all.” Sally stiffened. She had liked Ginger up to that moment, and later on, no doubt, she would resume her liking for him: but in the immediate moment which followed these words she found herself regarding him with stormy hostility. How dare he sit there saying things like that about Gerald? Ginger, who was lighting a cigarette without a care in the world, proceeded to develop his theme.