A tall, well-featured man, well-dressed, well-groomed, walked in through the open door. With a certain amount of care—customary enough in him to hide the obvious—he laid his silk hat, brim upwards, upon the table, pulled off his gloves, threw them carelessly into it, and turned round.
"You're going out?" he said.
"Yes."
"Can't come and have dinner with me?"
"No, couldn't."
"Taking the little lady out, I suppose?"
"No, she's upstairs."
The man's eyes passed across Traill's face as they wandered to the portrait of James Brownrigg over the mantelpiece.
"Well, I'm at a loose end," he said. He took a gold cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. Traill continued his gymnastics with the shirt, forcing studs through obdurate holes, fastening links and muttering under his breath.
"I thought we might have dined together and taken the little lady to a music hall, like we did before. How long ago was that?"