Garth had been engaged in writing a letter and puffing smoke over it from a meerschaum pipe some shades browner than his face.
At sight of Severance, and the sound of his name deformed by a page-boy, the big man rose, topping his tall guest in height and erectness.
"Well?" was his only greeting, as the door closed. He pushed a box of cigarettes across the table. "Those are the smokes you prefer, I believe."
"Thanks. I have my own. And my own matches."
"All right." Garth continued to puff at his pipe.
"You have seen Miss Sorel, I understand."
"That is so."
"She—or rather Mrs. Sorel—'phoned me that—er—though you'd had some conversation, the—affair hadn't been entirely explained to you. That's as it should be. It's my business, and my place, to explain it."
"Fire away. Do you want to sit down?"
"I prefer to stand."