He wore rough tweeds, and they were damp and baggy; his boots were muddy; his hair was a trifle disorderly. The ensemble made a figure wildly incongruous to the soberly splendid and stately dining-hall of the Primordial Club, with its sparse patronage of members in evening-dress.
Ember, himself as severely beautiful in black and white as the ceremonious livery of to-day permits a man to be, was wonder-struck at sight of Whitaker in such unconventional guise, at such a time, in such a place. With neither invitation nor salutation, he slipped into a chair on the other side of the table, and stared.
Whitaker smiled benignantly upon him, and called a waiter.
Ember, always abstemious, lifted his hand and smiled a negative smile.
Whitaker dismissed the waiter.
"Well...?" he inquired cheerfully.
"What right have you got to look like that?" Ember demanded.
"The right of every free-born American citizen to make an ass of himself according to the dictates of his conscience. I've been exploring the dark backwards and abysm of the Bronx—afoot. Got caught in the rain on the way home. Was late getting back, and dropped in here to celebrate."
"I've been looking for you everywhere, since morning."
"I suspected you would be. That's why I went walking—to be lonesome and thoughtful for once in a way."