He said "How d'you do?" awkwardly. One could see without a notion what that meant.
"I'm staying here," I continued. "Did you not know?"
"Then won't you have some breakfast? Beastly cold, I fear," politeness forced him to utter. "No, Ianthe never writes to me. I had not heard any news for a fortnight, and I have not seen her yet."
Manners have been drummed into me from early youth, so I said, politely, "You only arrived from Paris late last night, did you not?"
"I got in about seven o'clock, I think," he replied.
"We had to leave so early—we were going to the opera," I said.
"A Wagner that begins at unearthly hours, I suppose?" he murmured, absently.
"No, it was 'Carmen,' but we dined first with my—my—guardian, Mr. Carruthers."
"Oh!"
We both ate for a little. The tea was greenish black—and lukewarm. No wonder he has dyspepsia.