“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” she protested, shocked.
“You must. To make up for all I said that night,” whispered the authoress. “Be generous, Frances! Don’t be petty!”
She allowed herself to be persuaded, accepted the suit and with it a new hat and blouse. She felt guilty and ashamed and yet delighted. She was so very anxious to make a favourable impression on this brother Horace.
She started off, very nervous and still more ashamed. The whole exploit seemed wrong, meeting the man without his wife, and wearing clothes she could never have bought for herself.... It was common.
“Cheap,” she reflected.
But Horace would have made a supper-club respectable. They were waiting in the corridor; she saw her Mr. Naylor at once though he didn’t see her; slender and drooping, quietly conscious of his impeccable British elegance, he was watching the wrong door. Near him was a heavy, bull-necked, red-faced man with a black moustache and melancholy, bilious eyes, who smoked a big cigar and stared nowhere. This was Horace.
He surprised Frances by his lack of everything that pleased her in his brother. He was altogether the merchant, not a hint of the man-of-the-world. He shook hands with her and smiled, but it was a sad, dull smile. He was distrait, and couldn’t conceal it.
“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “Lead the way, Lionel, my boy!”
They entered an engaging little tea-room with shaded lamps and sofas. Lionel took charge of everything, chose a table, and ordered the cocktails, but the management of the conversation was evidently beyond him. There was a long and awkward silence, while the drinks were coming. No one looked at either of the others.
It was Horace who first revived, after two cocktails.