“I can smell it from here,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“I know it is not considered the thing to contradict a lady,” said Mr. Dodson, withdrawing two steps from the buffet, “but you appear to have paid me the compliment of forgetting the commercial traveller who has just gone out. So long. Be good.”
Mr. Dodson sauntered out of the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel with the inimitable nonchalance of bearing which many, besides the lady in the heliotrope blouse, never failed to admire.
Before returning to his official duties at No. 24 Trafalgar Square, Mr. Dodson went in quest of a chemist, whom he found a few doors up the street. Of him he purchased a pennyworth of pungent pink lozenges, which immediately he proceeded to suck. He then re-entered the premises of the eminent publishing house; but instead of going forthwith to admonish William Jordan, Junior, he proceeded to wash his face, to part his hair in the middle with much care, and to re-adjust his necktie.
These preliminaries accomplished, Mr. Dodson walked very slowly and erectly up to the second storey. He entered the small ante-chamber at the head of the stairs, which was dedicated to the sole use of the vigilant guardian of these Olympian altitudes, one G. Eliot Davis.
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, peering within, “is Mr. Octavius in his room?”
“Yes, Dodson, he is,” said Mr. Davis.
“Alone, Davis?”
“Alone, Dodson.”
“Thank you, Davis.”