“You have lost something?” he inquired, courteously.
“Yes, a book. I wish,” said the secretary, annoyed, “that people would leave things alone. You haven’t seen a novel called The Man with the Missing Eyeball anywhere about, have you? I’ll swear I left it on one of these seats when I went in to lunch.”
“You are better without it,” said the Sage, with a touch of austerity. “I do not approve of these trashy works of fiction. How much more profitably would your time be spent in mastering the contents of such a volume as I hold in my hand. This is the real literature.”
The secretary drew nearer, peering discontentedly about him; and as he approached the Oldest Member sniffed inquiringly.
“What,” he said, “is that odour of—? Ah, I see that you are wearing them in your buttonhole. White violets,” he murmured. “White violets. Dear me!”
The secretary smirked.
“A girl gave them to me,” he said, coyly. “Nice, aren’t they?” He squinted down complacently at the flowers, thus missing a sudden sinister gleam in the Oldest Member’s eye—a gleam which, had he been on his guard, would have sent him scudding over the horizon; for it was the gleam which told that the Sage had been reminded of a story.
“White violets,” said the Oldest Member, in a meditative voice. “A curious coincidence that you should be wearing white violets and looking for a work of fiction. The combination brings irresistibly to my mind—”
Realising his peril too late, the secretary started violently. A gentle hand urged him into the adjoining chair.
“—the story,” proceeded the Oldest Member, “of William Bates, Jane Packard, and Rodney Spelvin.”