The girl laughed and glanced back, but whether she was laughing at or with him it would be hard to say. Chambermaids have strange tastes.
It was in the hall that he met Moxon, senior partner in Plunder's, the great bill-discounting firm; a tall man, serious of face and manner.
"Why, God bless my soul, Pettigrew!" cried Moxon, "I scarcely knew you."
"You have the advantage of me, old cock," replied Simon airily, "for I'm —— if I ever met you before."
"My mistake," said Moxon.
It was Pettigrew's face and voice, but all the rest was not Pettigrew, and the discounter of bills hurried off, feeling as though he had come across the uncanny—which he had.
Simon paused at the office, holding a lady clerk in light conversation about the weather and turning upon her that sprightly wit already mentioned. She was busy and stiff, and the weather and his wit didn't seem to interest her. Then he asked for change of a ten-pound note, and she gave it to him in sovereigns; then he asked for change of a sovereign—she gave it to him; then he asked, with a grin, for change of a shilling. She was outraged now; that which ought to have made her laugh seemed to incense her. Do what he could, he couldn't warm her.
She was colder than the ice-cream girls. What the devil was the matter with them all? She slapped the change for the shilling down and turned away to her books.
Tilting his hat further back, he rapped with a penny on the ledge.