November became December, and to all appearances he had settled down in his new residence with complete resignation, when that unknowable factor that upsets so many calculations came upon the scene,—the factor, I mean, that wears a petticoat.
Mr Beveridge strolled into Escott’s room one morning to find the doctor inspecting a mixed assortment of white kid gloves.
“Do these mean past or future conquests?” he asked with his smile.
“Both,” laughed the doctor. “I’m trying to pick out a clean pair for the dance to-night.”
“You go a-dancing, then?”
“Don’t you know it’s our own monthly ball here?”
“Of course,” said Mr Beveridge, passing his hand quickly across his brow. “I must have heard, but things pass so quickly through my head nowadays.”
He laughed a little conventional laugh, and gazed at the gloves.
“You are coming, of course?” said Escott.
“If you can lend me a pair of these. Can you spare one?”