Anthony's mouth twitched.
Harcourt took another drink before adding, "Still, I am glad to see you here."
He looked at him. There was something unreadable in his eyes. "Are you?"
For a moment, he didn't reply. Then the man gave a small laugh. "Of course," he said. "It is always more entertaining when you are present."
Anthony shook his head. "You have a remarkably generous definition of entertainment."
"And you have a remarkably poor definition of friendship."
Anthony looked at him for a moment: friendship, his foot.
He knew men like Harcourt. They were backbiters.
Men who smiled warmly while quietly measuring what another man was worth to them. Men who remembered every weakness, every mistake, every useful connection. Harcourt was particularly fond of power, and he had never been ashamed of making himself agreeable to those who possessed it.
Anthony had seen him do it often enough. Then he raised his glass. "To poor definitions."
