"But you're not bad-lookin'," she said. "Not at all. It's an interestin' face. You look as though you were a poet or something. It's your clothes. Why do you dress so badly?"
"My clothes are all right when I buy them," said Henry blushing. (This was a sensitive point with him.) "I go to a very good tailor. But when I've worn them a week or two they're like nothing on earth, although I put them under my bed and have a trousers press. I look very fine in the morning sometimes just for five minutes, but in an hour it's all gone."
Lady Alicia laughed.
"You want to marry—some woman who'll look after you."
Next moment Henry had a shock. The door opened and in came Tom Duncombe. Henry had not seen him since the day of their encounter. In spite of himself his heart failed him. What would happen? How awful if, in front of Lady Alicia, Duncombe went for him! What should he do? How maintain his dignity? How not show himself the silly young fool that he felt?
Duncombe crossed the room, fat, red-faced, smiling. "Well, Alice," he said, "glad to see you. How's everything?"
Then he turned to Henry, holding out his hand.
"Glad to see you, Trenchard," he said. "Hope you're fit."
"Very," said Henry.
They shook hands.