He had scarcely entered it, and was taking out his cigarette case, when a tall, smooth-shaven fellow, very ruddy and very blond, sprang from a chair in which he had been lounging, and, rushing forward, gripped Barry's hand.
"By Jove, Oscar, old chap!" he exclaimed heartily. "Why, this is ripping, don't you know! To think of seeing you in this bally place!"
Lawrence frowned, and withdrew his hand as soon as the other's fingers relaxed their pressure. He was in no mood for talking to strangers, even if they did labor under an innocent case of mistaken identity.
"I think you must have made a mistake," he returned coldly. "I don't remember ever having seen you before."
The Englishman's face took on an expression of incredulous astonishment, and he fumbled for the monocle depending from his neck by a broad black ribbon.
"But, I say!" he objected, in a plaintive tone. He had screwed the glass into his left eye, and was regarding Barry inquiringly. "You don't mean you've really forgotten the ripping times we had at Cambridge? You're just chaffing, old chap! You couldn't forget the bloomin' rackets we used to pull off in your rooms—eh, what?"
"I really have," Barry retorted shortly. "You are evidently taking me for some one else."
The other's jaw dropped, but the monocle remained firmly in its place.
"Fancy, now!" he gasped helplessly. "Extraordinary lapse of memory!" He shrugged his shoulders, and went on, with heavy sarcasm: "I dare say, then, you don't even remember Cambridge?"
"I remember Cambridge perfectly," Lawrence retorted sharply, goaded beyond endurance; "but I have no recollection of you whatever."