It was during this finale to the evening that Coningsby brought up a man somewhat of his own type, and yet different. He was different in that, though of the same rank and age, he was tall and dark, and carried himself with a slight stoop of the shoulders. An olive complexion touched off with well-rounded black eyebrows and a neat black mustache made one take him at first for a foreigner, while the dreaminess of the dark eyes was melancholy and introspective, if not quite despondent.
“Melbury, I want you to know Doctor Cantyre, who holds the honorable office of physician in ordinary to the club.”
Once more I was in conversation with a man of antecedents similar to my own, and once more the breaking of the ice was that between men accustomed to the same order of associations. In this case we found them in Cantyre’s tourist recollections of Montreal and Quebec, and his enjoyment of winter sports.
CHAPTER VI
There was nothing more than this to the meeting that night, but early the next afternoon I was called to the telephone. As such a summons was rare in the club, I went to the instrument in some trepidation.
“Hello! This is Frank Melbury.”
“This is Doctor Cantyre. You remember that we met last evening?”
“Oh, rather!”