He laughed aloud, so absorbed in the mental picture of her chagrin, that he collided with a dapper young man in a dinner jacket at that moment about to enter Thérèse's sitting-room. Pulling up short, he looked to see who it was who made so free of the house, and, simultaneously, the visitor wheeled round with an expression of nonchalant arrogance.
"Holliday!"
"Ah, it's you, Clifford!"
The greeting, though not exactly unfriendly, lacked warmth on both sides.
"I heard over the telephone you were expected. How's the great New
World?"
"Oh, flourishing. I suppose you're dining here?"
"Why, no. As a matter of fact, I thought of taking Thérèse out somewhere. She's a bit frayed out, poor girl; she thought it might help her to sleep if she got away for a couple of hours. Rotten shame about your father. Typhoid's no joke at his time of life."
"Still, he seems to be going on fairly well."
"So I hear. I've been having a chat with Sartorius. He's by way of being a pal of mine, you know."
"Yes, my aunt tells me he did great things for you."