Gomme walked over to him and took the card, which the exquisite held out to him between the first and second fingers of his lavender-gloved hand.
“Will no one offer me a chair?” the affected voice asked plaintively.
Gomme motioned him to a seat by the empty fireplace, and the other strolled thither and sat down on the edge of it with deliberate care. The seat was gone—a bristling hollow only left. He took off his hat and looked about the room with a cold, critical stare.
Gomme took the card to Noll.
“Mr. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott,” he read in a gruff whisper, handing the card to the youngster; and he added grimly: “Destiny was against the Thing from the beginning, Oliver. A man like that was bound to go on all fours and eat grass.” He raised his voice: “The editor’s room, please,” he said. And, as Noll scrambled down leisurely from his seat, the yellow-haired youth added under his breath solemnly: “Oliver, select the best office-broom, and as I cast him down the stairs, kindly crack the hero’s shins. It will confuse his retreat. War is an art—not a vulgar scrimmage.”
Noll solemnly carried the card into the editor’s office. Gomme went to his seat, sat down, and aggressively paid no heed to the Thing.
The exquisite became nettled. Said he affectedly:
“That’s an awfully smart office-girl of yours——”
Netherby Gomme rose slowly from his chair, and, walking over to him, stood and looked down at him with contempt.
“Oh, you’re a judge!” said he—“a sort of overdressed Paris awarding the apple——”