“Well, I’m glad I met you,” he said, his lips still twitching, as though with amusement. “Sit down and have some dinner with me.”
I hesitated, for just at that moment Mr. Ravenor’s words concerning his secretary flashed into my mind. Besides, I was not at all sure that I liked him. But, on the other hand, what alternative was there for me? What excuse could I find for declining so simple an invitation? In a few minutes the waiter would appear with the modest meal which I had ordered, and it would be impossible for me to order him to set it down in another part of the room, or to leave it and walk out of the hotel, just because this man was there. To do so would be to tell him as plainly as possible that I had some particular desire for avoiding him, and he would instantly divine that I was obeying a behest of Mr. Ravenor’s. No; it was unavoidable. I had better accept his invitation, and, briefly, I did so.
“That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “It’s a queer fancy of mine, but I hate dining alone. Waiter, bring some more soup at once. This gentleman will dine with me.”
During dinner our conversation was interrupted. Hat in hand, Reynolds was standing before us, looking at Mr. Marx and then at me and the table before us with a look on his face which I did not altogether understand, although it annoyed me excessively. He spoke to me:
“The dogcart has come round, sir.”
I half rose and threw down my napkin, though with some reluctance. I held out my hand regretfully to Mr. Marx, but he refused to take it.
“You needn’t go home with Reynolds unless you like,” he said. “I have a brougham from the Castle here, and I can drop you at the farm on my way home.”
I hesitated, for the temptation to stay was strong. In fact, I should have accepted at once, only that Reynolds’s grave, frowning face somehow reminded me of Mr. Ravenor’s injunction. Reynolds, like a fool, settled the matter.
“I think Mr. Morton had better return with me, sir,” he said to Mr. Marx. “If you are ready, sir,” he added to me. “The mare gets very fidgety if she’s kept waiting.”
My boyish vanity was wounded to the quick by the style of his address, and his unwise assumption of authority, and I answered quickly: