“No, I should think not, indeed.” Another pause followed and he put his eyeglass in position, glanced at me and then round the room, and let it fall again. “I suppose not.”
“Will you have a pick-me-up?” I asked. It struck me he had been looking about for one.
“Cognac,” he replied with a nod. I rang for my servant, Bryant, and mixed a brandy and soda, which Vasco drank eagerly. “Had a hot night of it,” he murmured with one of his inane grins as he set the empty glass down.
“Lost?”
“I always do, curse the luck,” he answered, and pouring himself out about a wine-glassful of brandy he gulped it down. “Hair of the dog, you know,” he added, smacking his lips. The spirit stimulated him. “Better luck next time;” and he laughed, the frown left his face, and he lolled back smoking with an air of indifference real or assumed.
“So you’re off, eh? Going in your yacht?”
“Off? Where to?”
“Home, I suppose. That’s what I meant about catching you.”
“I am not going away.”
“Not? Why Sampayo——” he stopped suddenly. “No, it wasn’t Sampayo of course—but I heard you were going last night,” he said, evidently confused by his first slip.