"Go to the door with him, Iolanthe," said the old man, "and be charming to him. He's the richest man in the district."
At that we all laughed. But walking beside me in the twilight of the hall, Iolanthe said very softly, with a sort of timid grief:
"I know you don't want to come again."
"No, I don't," I said frankly, and was about to give my reasons, when she suddenly snatched up my hand, pressed it between her slim white palms, and said, half crying:
"Oh, come again! Please, please come again."
That's the way you're taken in. Old nincompoop that I was, I went daft on the instant.
In my excitement I chewed up the whole of my cigar on the ride home, forgetting to light it.
I made right for a mirror--lit all the lights, locked the door--back to the mirror. Examined myself front and back, and, with the help of my shaving mirror, my noble profile, too.
Result--crushing. A heavy bald pate, bull's neck, puffs under my eyes, double chin, my skin a fiery russet, like a glowing copper kettle.
And what was worse than all that--when I looked at myself in all my six feet of bulk, a chandelier went up. I knew why everybody immediately called me a "good fellow." Even in the regiment they used to call me a good fellow.