“It speaks volumes,” said the Colonel briefly, and he finished his barley-water.
The new member flung the end of his cigar into the grate and rose to his feet. His face still wore the reflective smile which had decorated it throughout the Colonel’s story.
“And what,” I asked the Colonel, “are the present relations between Stretchley’s and the Sky-high?”
“It would be curious to know,” he answered; “but as to that I have no information. I’ve never ventured to interrogate George Langhorn on the point.”
“I think I can answer the question,” said the new member, flicking an ash off his trousers. “The two companies were privately amalgamated last week. I drew the articles of association myself. Mr Langhorn is to be chairman of the joint concern.”
The Colonel might plausibly have resented a silence so long maintained as to border on deceit. He showed no anger. He nodded his head gravely, as though to say: “Here is the Epilogue! Here is the Catastrophe complete!”
“Stretchley’s and the Sky-high!” he murmured. “Poor George Langhorn! Poor George!”
I went home to dinner really quite depressed.
PRUDENCE AND THE BISHOP
MISS PRUDENCE was astonishingly pretty; it was far from tedious to lie on the bank of the stream and watch her, while her second brother—a lanky youth of fifteen—fished for non-existent trout with an entirely unplausible fly.