“Not yet—perhaps not at all. Do you object to my smoking here?”
“Don't object to nothin', but this ain't no place to warm up in, see!”
Felix looked at him, and a faint smile played about his lips—the first that had lightened them all day. “I shan't ask you to start a fresh fire,” he said in a decided tone; “and now, do as I bid you, and pass me that box of matches.”
The man caught the tone and expression, placed the box beside him, and joined the group in the rear. There was a whispered conference, and a stout man wearing a dingy jacket disengaged himself from the others and lounged toward Felix.
“Nasty night,” he began. “Had a lot of this weather this month. Never see a December like it.”
“Yes, a bad night. Your servant seemed to think I was in the way. Are you the proprietor?”
“Well, I am one of them. Why?”
“Nothing—only I hoped to find you more hospitable.”
“Oh, smoke away—guess we can stand it, if you can. Dinner's over”—he looked at the big clock decorating the white wall—“but they'll be piling in here after the theatres is out. You live around here?”
“No, not immediately.”