"What's the matter with you?"
Seated in the lobby of the De la Pax on Sunday morning, Mr. Trimmer turned a disapproving eye upon the lank Englishman at his side as he made this query. And his question was not without good foundation. For the aspirant to the title of Lord Harrowby was at the moment a jelly quaking with fear.
"Fawncy meeting you after all these years," said poor old George in an uncertain treble.
"Come, come," cried Mr. Trimmer, "put a little more authority into your voice. You can't walk up and claim your rights with your knees dancing the tango. This is the moment we've been looking forward to. Act determined. Walk into that room up-stairs as though you were walking into Rakedale Hall to take charge of it."
"Allan, don't you know me—I'm your brother George," went on the Englishman, intent on rehearsing.
"More like it," said Trimmer. "Put the fire into it. You're not expecting a thrashing, you know. You're expecting the title and recognition that belongs to you. I wish I was the real Lord Harrowby. I guess I'd show 'em a thing or two."
"I wish you was," agreed poor old George sadly. "Somehow, I don't seem to have the spirit I used to have."
"A good point," commented Trimmer. "Years of wrong and suffering have made you timid. I'll call that to their attention. Five minutes of ten, your lordship."
His lordship groaned.
"All right, I'm ready," he said. "What is it I say as I go in? Oh, yes—" He stepped into the elevator—"Fawncy seeing you after all these years."