Mr. Van Pycke dropped the glove he was pulling on. He went very white, except for his nose. That seemed redder by contrast.
"Not—not a chorus girl?" he stammered, his hand shaking as he raised it to his brow.
"No, dad. Not yet. I expect to marry some one else first. I'll save the other for a rainy day."
"Who—who is it, my boy? Who is it?"
"That, sir, is still a matter of conjecture. I haven't quite got down to the point of selecting—"
"You insufferable booby," roared his father. "You gave me a—a dreadful shock, sir! Never do that again."
"I thought you'd like to know, sir," said Bosworth, politely. He winked gravely at a mahogany doorpost, and motioned for his father to precede him through the storm doors.
"By the way," muttered his father, obstructing the way, as if recalling something he had forgotten to attend to inside the club, "would you mind lending me fifty for a couple of days? I meant to speak to you about it in—"
"Will ten do, dad? It's all I have with me, except a tip for the driver. We mustn't forget the driver on a night like this." Bosworth was feeling in his trousers pocket, no sign of resentment in his face.
"I dare say I can borrow forty from Stone," said the other, readily. "No," he went on, after he had pocketed the crumpled bank note and was fastening his baby lamb collar close up to his shrivelled throat; "no, we can't forget the driver on a night like this. You really won't mind dropping me up town, will you, Bosworth? I don't mind walking if you'd rather not."