“Is he? You say so. I don't know.”
The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to compete successfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish.
“Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'll give you something to eat.”
“I don't want anything to eat, thanks.”
“You don't want anything to eat?” said Fillmore incredulously. He supposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people of this sort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. “I'm starving.”
“Well, run along then.”
“Yes, but I want to talk...”
He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a small man of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor's advertisements would have called a “nobbly” suit of checked tweed and—in defiance of popular prejudice—a brown bowler hat. Mr. Lester Burrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted their conversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks on the subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his young charge.
“Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready to spar.”
He glanced inquiringly at Sally.