Catching Brian’s eye, I discerned a killing twinkle therein.
“Why, Trask,” he said in his quiet way, “Holt’s got into the way of things about twice as quick as any imported man I ever knew.”
“Yes. Twice as quick,” repeated Beryl, in emphatic assent.
I fancy Trask didn’t like this—he looked as if he didn’t; but I did, though of course I made no sign either way. Now all this was petty, and by every rule I ought to have been superior to any such trivial annoyances. But bear in mind that I make no claim to be a hero; indeed, I propose in this narrative to set down my own weaknesses with a candid and impartial hand. And I intensely disliked Trask.
The latter proceeded to make himself at home. Of course he was going to stay the evening, equally of course when we sat down to table he must needs plant himself on the other side of Beryl, and the only thing that kept him from entirely monopolising her was that he could not bring himself to allow the attention of any one else in the room to stray for many moments from himself, and as usual the conversation consisted of Trask, with an occasional monosyllable of assent or dissent interjected elsewhere. So hidebound was the self-complacency of Trask that even George found it profitless to cheek him with any effect, although in justice to George I am bound to say he tried his level best.
“What stay are you making, Holt?” brought out Trask, by way of varying the conversation.
Now this sort of query propounded to a guest right in the eye of his entertainers has always struck me as the very acme of idiotic tactlessness, and about on a par with asking an acquaintance of twenty minutes’ standing whether he’s married. Yet nothing is more common to encounter than both forms of foolishness. But before I could frame an adequate reply Brian answered for me.
“He’s staying on altogether, Trask. We’re going to put him up to the ropes.”
“Eh? Altogether? What? Going to fix up in this country then?”
I nodded, for I could not speak. I had just caught Brian’s eye, and the expression therein was too much for my feelings. I should have exploded had I attempted speech, for the blank astonishment on Trask’s face was too comical. He looked about as happy under the announcement as though somebody had just begun to open fire upon him with shrapnel. But he said something about “the more the merrier,” which, I fear, was not a genuine expression of sentiment in the present instance.