"Your bath is ready, sir," he said, standing with that perfectly vacuous expression which had been carefully trained to express neither joy, grief, hilarity, nor the natural surprise which he might have experienced at beholding his master, brush in hand, standing absent-mindedly before a great copper platter that was near the window.
"Telephone up to the stables; I'll take Judy to-day," said Beecher, passing into the bathroom.
A touch of the cold shower set his nerves to tingling and sent his mind to recalling pleasantly the pretty faces of the evening before, after the manner of young gentlemen of leisure with a proper share of vanity. Two figures rose immediately—Rita Kildair and Nan Charters. He remembered them both without excitement, but with different emotions.
"By George, Rita's a thoroughbred," he said. "She has them all beat—mysterious as a sphinx. Prettiest sight in the world, seeing her manipulate a crowd. Jove, but she has nerve!" Then he reflected a little guiltily that he had rather deserted her for other shrines, and he resolved enthusiastically to make amends by throwing himself, heart and soul, into the recovery of the ring.
"By George, it's something to have the confidence of a woman like that!" he exclaimed, sublimely fatuous. "That old mammoth of a Slade would give ten years of his life, I'll bet, to stand where I do with her."
Then he remembered Nan Charters, with a little movement of impatience at the thought of his sentimentality.
"What the deuce got into me last night?" he said, displeased with himself. "I acted like a school-boy. I suppose she thinks she's got me on her scalp-belt—easy as a stage-door Johnny. What the deuce got me wabbling so? These actresses are full of tricky stuff."
He resolved that he would show her his complete indifference by not calling for at least a week, maybe two, and concluded, with profound penetration:
"Good game. She'll remember how I started in, and wonder what changed me. That's it—keep 'em guessing."
He went into the dining-room, where the coffee was boiling in the percolator, and sat down, after assuring himself by a trip to the opposite bedroom that Bo Lynch was still sleeping the profound sleep of the unjust..