“He’s not a gentleman, sir,” warned Trenter, desiring exculpation in advance.
This was in case Mr. Superbus was even less of a gentleman than he thought him to be. Gordon has never any illusions on the subject. He said as much tersely, and Trenter went forth in a spirit of joyful anticipation, knowing that the nature of this interview would be repeated to him when next he met his friend.
A wait, and then:
“Mr. Superbus, sir,” said Trenter correctly. He bowed the visitor into the study, and withdrew.
There was nothing in the appearance of Mr. Superbus that was suggestive of Roman culture at its zenith. He was very short, and waddled rather than walked. He was fat so that, if he were standing on two square feet of his own property, his waistcoat might have been arrested for trespass on neighbouring land. His face was very red and broad; he had a stubbly black moustache, which was obviously dyed; on his otherwise bald head, twenty-seven hairs were parted, thirteen on one side and fourteen on the other. He had often counted them.
He stood, breathing audibly and twisting his hat in his blue hands.
“Sit down, Mr. Superbus,” said Gordon awkwardly. “Trenter was telling me that you are—in fact, you have the distinction of being a Roman?”
Mr. Superbus bent forward before he sat, as though to assure himself that his feet were all present and correct.
“Yes, sir,” he said, in a rich, deep voice. “I believe I am. Us Superbusses”—he gave the word a pronunciation which suggested that he had been named after a public vehicle of unusual size—“have come down for generations. There’s only four of us now—there’s me, my brother Augustus, who’s married to a young woman in Coventry; there’s Agrippa, who’s doing very well with her third husband—this one doesn’t drink, I’m happy to say—and there’s Scipius: he’s on the stage.”
“Really!” said Gordon, dazzled for the moment.