"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."
Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant in tone, was unmistakable.
"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his hand in greeting.
The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"
"Don't you know me?"
"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.
"I'm Nigel—just come home."
"Young Browning. Humph."
It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.
"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the lad."