Lieutenant Valcour laughed pleasantly. “That is where I fail in my background,” he said. “The things done were usual to both of you and therefore of no importance. To me, however, they would prove interesting because of their unfamiliarity. Did you talk at all?”
“Elaborately.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said elaborately. Herbert makes a point of talking elaborately whenever he’s lying.”
“I see—he was lying, then, about Marge Myles.”
“And unoriginally. But Herbert never was original, much, in his emotions. He told me he was going to an impromptu reunion of some men in his class at the Yale Club. These reunions have occurred with astonishing regularity once a week for the past month, in spite of their impromptu character. I detest having my intelligence insulted,” she ended, not unfiercely, “more than anything else in the world.”
“You will forgive me for becoming personal, but I doubt whether Mr. Endicott understood you very well.”
“He didn’t understand me at all.”
“And you, him?”
Mrs. Endicott momentarily disarranged the perfect arch of her eyebrows. “I could see through him perfectly,” she said. “A child could see through him. But understand him? I don’t think anyone could understand Herbert. He made a fetish of reticence. He was,” she concluded, “half animal.”
“And the other half rather cloudily complex?”