"Well, sir," said the valet smoothly, "the gentleman seemed such an old friend of yours, I thought perhaps you wouldn't like to miss him."
"One's oldest friends are sometimes d——d nuisances, Forman."
The Colonel saw the pleasant evening he had contemplated spending in the society of two or three of the gayest old bloods in London darkening into a tête-à-tête with Mr. Walkingshaw at his portentously respectable club, and regretted he had allowed Forman to lay out a clean white waistcoat; for he was, by force of circumstances, economical as well as gallant.
"I tell you what," said he, "I don't mean to wait a minute after 7:30. If he turns up late, you can make my apologies, and say I'll be happy to lunch with him to-morrow."
He put on his coat, added an overcoat and white scarf, cocked his opera hat on his shapely old head, and sat confronting his sitting-room clock. At 7:29 he rose briskly, and then with a sigh sank back into his chair. He heard a footstep on the stair.
"Mr. Walkingshaw," announced the valet.
The Colonel advanced with that courteous smile for which he was renowned.
"My dear Charlie!" cried his visitor.
"Well, Heriot," smiled the Colonel, looking a little surprised at the remarkable joviality of this greeting.
He surveyed his old friend up and down, and seemed still more surprised.