"I should like to speak to you, if I may," Richard continued.
"I am not aware," Mr. Grex said, "that I have the privilege of your acquaintance."
"You haven't," Richard admitted, "but all the same I want to speak to you, if I may."
"Since you have gone so far," Mr. Grex conceded, "you had better finish, but you must allow me to tell you in advance that I look upon any address from a perfect stranger as an impertinence."
"You'll think worse of me before I've finished, then," Richard declared desperately. "You don't mind if I sit down?"
"These seats," Mr. Grex replied coldly, "are free to all."
The young man took his place upon the divan with a sinking heart. There was something in Mr. Grex's tone which seemed to destroy all his confidence, a note of something almost alien in the measured contempt of his speech.
"I am sorry to give you any offence," Richard began. "I happened to notice that you were watching me. I was looking at your daughter—staring at her. I am afraid you thought me impertinent."
"Your perspicuity," Mr. Grex observed, "seems to be of a higher order than your manners. You are, perhaps, a stranger to civilised society?"
"I don't know about that," Richard went on doggedly. "I have been to college and mixed with the usual sort of people. My birth isn't much to speak of, perhaps, if you count that for anything."