Hashita flashed his teeth, and walked toward him.
“My name’s Ashbury — Henry C. Ashbury. Frank Hamilton told me to look you up. I’ll wait until you’re not busy.”
Hashita wrapped sinewy fingers around Ashbury’s hand. “Very great pleasure,” he said with a hissing intake of the breath. “Will honorable gentleman please be seated?”
Hashita moved with catlike swiftness, picked up one of the collapsed wooden chairs, jerked it open so swiftly that it sounded as though the chair had exploded in his hands. He placed it beside Bertha Cool’s chair. “Wait for fifteen minutes?” he inquired. “So sorry, but have pupil taking lessons.”
“Sure,” Ashbury said, “I’ll wait.”
Hashita bowed and apologized to Bertha Cool. He bowed and apologized to me. He bowed and smiled at Ashbury. He said, “Now we try again.”
I looked over to where Ashbury was sitting beside Bertha Cool. His eyes were fastened on me with mild curiosity. It had been bad enough putting on a private exhibition for Bertha. The presence of a stranger made it unbearable.
“Go ahead,” I said to Hashita. “I’ll wait.”
“You’ll catch cold, Donald,” Bertha warned.
“No, no. Go right ahead,” Ashbury said hastily, placing his hat on the floor by the side of his chair. “I’m in no hurry at all. I–I’d like to see it.”