Bobbie Selsbury was annoyed.
“Will you tell him that he promised to play in a foursome with me, tell him—ask him to come to the telephone.”
Gordon got up from his tapestried armchair with an expressionless face. Before the servants he revealed nothing in the least degree emotive.
“Yes, yes, I know!” wearily. “But I had a prior engagement. You must get somebody else. Old Mendlesohn ... what’s the matter with him? Rubbish, my dear fellow.... At any rate, you must get somebody—I’m tremendously busy to-morrow.... I don’t feel like discussing my business on the telephone. Good-bye.”
He paced his dignified way to his den. Gordon Selsbury once rowed six in the Varsity boat—there were crossed oars above his fireplace, though he thought the display in bad taste. He had once been a fresher whose chief joy in life had been to steal policemen’s helmets and ride a bicycle down forbidden pathways, and to sprint from proctors. It seemed difficult to believe. He was tall and good-looking in the Apollo Belvedere manner. Fair, with a forehead which was large and thoughtful, he baffled instant analysis by carrying through life two inches of sidewhisker on either cheek. Men seeing him first thought he wrote music or played a ’cello. Women on introduction guessed him as a dancer of amazing agility, or possibly a film artist.
“Trenter....”
Trenter waited, his head attentively thrust forward, a simulation of intense interest on his sharp features. He continued to wait, even as Gordon continued to frown at the fireplace.
“Trenter....”
“Yes, sir?”
Slowly Mr. Selsbury turned his head until his eyes met Trenter’s.