"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 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.
"Well, you seem to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly.
"It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, Miss
Milliken?"
"Extremely exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting her spectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in her heart.
A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glass that morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And these people seemed to imagine that he was in the highest spirits. His laughter, which had sounded to him like the wailing of a demon, struck Miss Milliken as exhilarating.
"On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw," said Sir Mallaby, swooping back to duty once more, "we beg to state that we are prepared to accept service … sounds like a tennis match, eh, Sam? It isn't, though. This young ass, Eggshaw … what time did you dock this morning?"
"I landed nearly a week ago."
"A week ago! Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself?
Why haven't I seen you?"
"I've been down at Bingley-on-the-Sea."