"Poor old Beevor!" thought Horace, repentantly, "I've put his back up. I might just as well have shown him the plans, after all; it wouldn't have hurt me and it would have pleased him. Never mind, I'll make my peace with him after lunch. I'll ask him to give me his idea for a—no, hang it all, even friendship has its limits!"
He returned from lunch to hear what sounded like an altercation of some sort in his office, in which, as he neared his door, Beevor's voice was distinctly audible.
"My dear sir," he was saying, "I have already told you that it is no affair of mine."
"But I ask you, sir, as a brother architect," said another voice, "whether you consider it professional or reasonable——?"
"As a brother architect," replied Beevor, as Ventimore opened the door, "I would rather be excused from giving an opinion.... Ah, here is Mr. Ventimore himself."
Horace entered, to find himself confronted by Mr. Wackerbath, whose face was purple and whose white whiskers were bristling with rage. "So, sir!" he began. "So, sir!—--" and choked ignominiously.
"There appears to have been some misunderstanding, my dear Ventimore," explained Beevor, with a studious correctness which was only a shade less offensive than open triumph. "I think I'd better leave you and this gentleman to talk it over quietly."
"Quietly?" exclaimed Mr. Wackerbath, with an apoplectic snort; "quietly!!"
"I've no idea what you are so excited about, sir," said Horace. "Perhaps you will explain?"