He was quite young, ingenuous, and filled with conceit at being where he was—dining with the Amberleys, brought there under the ægis of Gilbert Lothian, chatting confidentially to the great Herbert Toftrees himself!
His immature heart was bursting with pride, Pol Roger, and satisfaction. He hadn't the least idea of what he was saying—that he was saying something frightfully dangerous and treacherous at least.
"I say, Mr. Toftrees, isn't Gilbert splendid? I could listen to him all night. He talks like that to me sometimes, when he's in the mood. It's like Walter Pater and Dr. Johnson rolled into one. And then he sort of punctuates it with something dry and brown and freakish—like Heine in the 'Florentine Nights'!"
With all his eagerness to hear more—the quiet malice in him welling up to understand and pin down this Gilbert Lothian—Toftrees was forced to pause for a moment. He knew that he could never have expressed himself as this enthusiastic and excited boy was able to do. Ingworth was a pupil then! Lothian could inspire, and was already founding a school . . .
"You know Mr. Lothian very well, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. I go and stay with Gilbert in the country a lot. I'm nearly always there! I am like a brother to him—he was an only child, you know. But isn't he wonderful?"
"Marvellous!" Toftrees chuckled as he said the word. He couldn't help it.
Misunderstood as his chuckle was, it did the trick and brought confidence in full flood from the careless and excited boy.
"Yes, and I know him so well! Hardly any one knows him so well as I do. Every one in town is crying out to find out all about him, and I'm really the only one who knows . . ."
He looked towards the door. Thoughts of the two pretty girls beyond flushed the wayward, wine-heated mind.