“He insisted upon being invited,” Nancy returned obdurately; “and, if he does go, he must be made useful. We sha’n’t need both him and Tommy; Mr. Brock wants to carry the basket.”
Brock, meanwhile, had left the maid standing in the lower hallway and, two steps at a time, was mounting the ducal staircase which led to Barth’s room. His fist, descending upon the panels, cleft the Englishman’s dream in two.
“Oh, yes. What is it? Wait a bit, and I’ll let you in.”
From the other side of the door, muffled sounds betrayed the fact that Barth was struggling with his dressing-gown and slippers. Then the door was flung open, and Barth stood on the threshold. He started back in astonishment, as he caught sight of his unexpected guest.
“Oh. Mr. Brock?”
“Yes. Sorry to have routed you out so early; but I came to bring you word from Miss Howard and the Lady.”
Barth stepped away from the doorway.
“Come in,” he said hospitably. “Excuse the look of the place, though.”
Brock’s keen eyes swept the room with direct, impersonal curiosity, took note of the half-unpacked boxes, the piles of books, the heaps of clothing, then moved back to Barth’s face, where they rested with mirthful, kindly scrutiny. Then he crossed the room and dropped into a chair by the window.
“You brought me a message from Miss Howard?” Barth queried tentatively, after a pause which his companion seemed disinclined to break.