“That’s that. Ready? Messrs. Brigney, Goole and Butterworth. What infernal names these people have. Sirs,—On behalf of our client ... oh, hullo, Sam!”
“Good morning, father.”
“Take a seat. I’m busy, but I’ll be finished in a moment. Where was I, Miss Milliken?”
“‘On behalf of our client....’”
“Oh, yes. On behalf of our client Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw.... Where these people get their names I’m hanged if I know. Your poor mother wanted to call you Hyacinth, Sam. You may not know it, but in the ’nineties when you were born, children were frequently christened Hyacinth. Well, I saved you from that.”
His attention now diverted to his son, Sir Mallaby seemed to remember that the latter had just returned from a long journey and that he had not seen him for many weeks. He inspected him with interest.
“Very glad you’re back, Sam. So you didn’t win?”
“No, I got beaten in the semi-finals.”
“American amateurs are a very hot lot, the best ones. I suppose you were weak on the greens. I warned you about that. You’ll have to rub up your putting before next year.”
At the idea that any such mundane pursuit as practising putting could appeal to his broken spirit now, Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was as if Dante had recommended some lost soul in the Inferno to occupy his mind by knitting jumpers.