Our conversation was abruptly interrupted. Toby had jumped to his feet. Coming in through the door of the lounge was—miracles never happen singly!—an only-too-familiar, smiling and middle-aged married couple and—Sylvia! Toby obscured me from them for an instant as he went eagerly toward them—an instant where I weighed the problem of whether to stay or bolt. The last time Sylvia and I had met she had told me, with a pretty sympathy that ought to have softened the blow, that she would always be glad to have me as a friend, but— The problem was resolved for me, before I could decide. Toby was leading the trio up to me.
“I want to introduce an old pal of mine—Jimmy Esdaile.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bryant shot a swift smile at each other and then to me as we shook hands. Sylvia almost grinned. I felt a perfect fool. “Good evening, Mr. Esdaile,” said Sylvia in her sweetest tones, her gray eyes demurely alight.
Mr. Esdaile! The last time, it had still been “Jimmy.” It is true that since I had somewhat boorishly informed her, upon that occasion, that I had no manner of use for being her friend, I had scarcely a legitimate grievance if now she chose to be frigid.
“Wont you sit down, all of you?” I suggested. “Mr. Bryant, you’ll take a Grand Marnier with your coffee, I know.”
“Thanks, Jimmy, I will,” said Mr. Bryant, seating himself. I saw Toby stare. His astonishment visibly increased as Mrs. Bryant, having comfortably disposed herself upon the settee, added in her motherly fashion: “And what in the world are you doing here, Jimmy?”
“That’s what I’m asking myself,” I replied. Toby cut me short in what might have been a witty answer had I been allowed to finish it.
“You people know each other, then?” he demanded.
Mr. Bryant smiled.