The last ejaculation was not addressed to Norman, but to the telephone, whose bell was ringing violently.
"Let him wait," said the Consul.
"Perhaps," hazarded Norman, "if you are busy this morning I had better tell my story at once."
"Certainly. But you need not hurry at all. It's only Dr Sforelli come for his game of chess. You know him perhaps? You have heard of him only?... Yes, the report was correct; he is one of the ablest men in Alsander. His father's name was Cohen, by the way."
"Cohen Sforelli?" inquired Norman.
"Just Cohen," said the Consul. "Are you an Anti-Semite?"
"I never thought about it," said Norman, determined that he would begin his tale at all costs. "But I am Anti-Alsandrian at present."
"Been trying to sell something? Hallo, there! Let him wait. Only Olivarbo. You know Count Olivarbo? For an Alsandrian, a man of some ability."
"I hope he has not rung you up on urgent business."
"Oh, dear no. I am teaching him golf. Of course, I am a little handicapped"—he glanced pathetically at his limp member—"but the rules and the style, you know, and so on."