Martin could feel Roberts’ eyes over the wire, slightly protruding, and his eyebrows moving gently up and down.
“I meant nothing. When will you be here?”
“Oh. Soon. It’s unexpected.”
“Thanks,” said Martin. “Till then.”
He went back to his room and shaved. Next he put on one black sock and one gray one—not for style’s sake, nor to be eccentric. When he was dressed he looked earnestly in the mirror.
“Pale,” he said. He sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. It seemed a long time to him before Roberts rapped on the door.
“I’m glad to see you,” Martin exclaimed with relief. “It’s you all right—you and your intolerable verve.”
Roberts laughed.
“Good heavens! What finery!” he cried, looking at Martin’s suit, which was pressed.
Roberts was wearing a Derby. There was a narrow beaver collar on his dark topcoat and under the fur was a light, silken scarf. He carried white knitted gloves. He stood for a few moments in the doorway looking at Martin. Then, throwing his hat and gloves on the bed, he went over to the mirror and adjusted his scarf, observing himself carefully.