“Everybody who is anybody,” repeated the other indifferently, “has been enthusiastic about it beyond all expectations. They reckon——”
He stopped. They had come to the entrance to the hall, and Rouse made his way in and hurriedly deposited himself upon a convenient chair.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “Don’t stand up there staring. I don’t want any attention called to me at all. I feel about the most congenital idiot any human being could feel.”
Terence sat down.
“Are you quite sure you can see all right from there,” he inquired. “Shall I ask that pretty gentleman in front to take his hat off?”
“That isn’t a hat,” said Rouse, casting dull care aside in the swiftly changing manner that was his wont, “that’s the gentleman’s hair. He has it like that because he’s in the wool-gathering business. It isn’t quite the same colour as it used to be last term though, is it? There seems a faint suspicion of early autumn about it. He’s been reading that advertisement, ‘All handsome men are bronzed,’ I expect, and he thinks it refers to the hair.”
The gentleman addressed turned haughtily and addressed himself to Terence.
“Would you mind asking your little boy to be quiet,” he said courteously. “I find his remarks a trifle distracting, and I’ve paid for my seat the same as what you ’ave.”
“One of the curls is missing,” commented Rouse. “Is some lady the proud possessor, or has his little brother been playing with the shears? It gives the head a rather mothy appearance anyhow. Reminds me of a part-worn doormat more than anything else.”
“Oh, rub his face in a bun,” retorted the gentleman with the golden locks.