“You haven’t seen it this morning?”
“Not since Saturday.”
The swift blue eyes of the man dilated. He looked curiously at Siegmund.
“You are not alone on your holiday?”
“No.” Siegmund did not like this—he gazed over the sea in displeasure.
“I live here—at least for the present—name, Hampson—”
“Why, weren’t you one of the first violins at the Savoy fifteen years back?” asked Siegmund.
They chatted awhile about music. They had known each other, had been fairly intimate, and had since become strangers. Hampson excused himself for having addressed Siegmund:
“I saw you with your nose flattened against the window,” he said, “and as I had mine in the same position too, I thought we were fit to be re-acquainted.”
Siegmund looked at the man in astonishment.