And often, as Mr. Airlie, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, had
convinced himself, the only evening meal that resources would permit was
the satisfying supper for one brought by the youngest daughter to her
father where he sat alone in the small dining-room.
Mr. Airlie, picking daintily at his food, continued his stories: of
philanthropists who paid starvation wages: of feminists who were a holy
terror to their women folk: of socialists who travelled first-class and
spent their winters in Egypt or Monaco: of stern critics of public morals
who preferred the society of youthful affinities to the continued company
of elderly wives: of poets who wrote divinely about babies' feet and
whose children hated them.
"Do you think it's all true?" Joan whispered to her host.
He shrugged his shoulders. "No reason why it shouldn't be," he said.
"I've generally found him right."
"I've never been able myself," he continued, "to understand the Lord's
enthusiasm for David. I suppose it was the Psalms that did it."
Joan was about to offer comment, but was struck dumb with astonishment on
hearing McKean's voice: it seemed he could talk.
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