“Well?” he said again.
“If you understand me,” said the man, “I’m in a very delicate position. I expect you know Mr. Gloy—Charles Gloy—editor of Cribbage——”
“No,” said Ivor. “But will you sit down?” And he placed two chairs.
The man and the woman sat down on their edges, the dog, too, sat on its edge! Ivor regarded it—a Schipperke—thinking:
‘Did they bring their dog to undermine me?’ As to that, it was the only kind of dog he did not like, but it looked damp and woeful.
“My brother works for Mr. Gloy,” said the man; “so, being at Beachhampton—out of a job, if you understand my meaning—I brought my wife—you being a well-known philanthropist——”
Ivor nervously took out a cigarette, and nervously put it back.
“I don’t know what I can do for you,” he murmured.
“I’m one to speak the truth,” resumed the man, “if you follow me——” And Ivor did—he followed on and on behind a wandering tale of printing, the war, ill-health. At last he said in despair:
“I really can’t recommend people I know nothing about. What exactly do you want me to do?”