Was Leila considering his elimination in view of this ulterior object?
Was there an ulterior gentleman somewhere prepared to replace him?
If so, where?
And who?
His wife's possible indiscretions had never interested him; he simply didn't care--had no curiosity, as long as appearances were maintained.
And she had preserved appearances with a skill which required all the indifferent and easy charity of their set to pretend completely deceived everybody.

Yes, he gave her credit for that; she had been clever.

Nobody outside of the social register knew the true state of affairs in the house of Leroy Mortimer--which, after all, was all anybody cared about.
And so, immersed in the details of his dirty little drama, he pondered over the possibility of an ulterior gentleman as he moved heavily to and fro, dressing himself--his neuralgia being much better--and presently descended the stairs to find everybody absent, engaged, as a servant explained, in a game of water basket-ball in the swimming pool.

So he strolled off toward the north wing of the house, which had been built for the squash-courts and swimming pool.
There was a good deal of an uproar in the big gymnasium as Mortimer walked in, threading his way through the palms and orange-trees; much splashing in the pool, cries and stifled laughter, and the quick rattle of applause from the gallery of the squash-courts.
The Page boys and Rena and Eileen on one side were playing the last match game against Sylvia, Marion Page, Siward, and Ferrall on the other; the big, slippery, glistening ball was flying about through storms of spray.

Marion caught it, but her brother Gordon got it away; then Ferrall secured it and dived toward the red goal; but Rena Bonnesdel caught him under water; the ball bobbed up, and Sylvia flung both arms around it with a little warning shout and hurled it back at Siward, who shot forward like an arrow, his opponents gathering about him in full cry, amid laughter and excited applause from the gallery, where Grace Ferrall and Captain Voucher were wildly offering odds on the blue, and Alderdene and Major Belwether were thriftily booking them.
Mortimer climbed the slippery, marble stairway as fast as his lack of breath permitted, anxious for his share of the harvest if the odds were right.