“You'll never refuse me, Professor,” he asserted, confidently. “I'm an old supporter, I am. I've seen you in Blackburn and Manchester, and twice here. Just as wonderful as ever! And that young lady of yours, Professor, begging your pardon if she is your daughter, as no doubt she is, why, she's a nut and no mistake.”
The professor sighed. He was in his element but he was getting uneasy at the flight of time.
“My young friend,” he said, “your face is not familiar to me but I cannot refuse your kindly offer. It must be the last, however, absolutely the last.”
Then Tavernake, directed here from the music-hall, pushed open the swing door and entered. The professor set down his glass untasted. Tavernake came slowly across the room.
“You haven't forgotten me, then, Professor?” he remarked, holding out his hand.
The professor welcomed him a little limply; something of the bombast had gone out of his manner. Tavernake's arrival had reminded him of things which he had only too easily forgotten.
“This is very surprising,” he faltered, “very surprising indeed. Do you live in these parts?”
“Not far away,” Tavernake answered. “I saw your announcement in the papers.”
The professor nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “I am on the war-path again. I tried resting but I got fat and lazy, and the people wouldn't have it, sir,” he continued, recovering very quickly something of his former manner. “The number of offers I got through my agents by every post was simply astounding—astounding!”