'That—that's splendid!' he said. 'I—I think I'll be going.'
'I heard the car outside just now,' said Lady Wetherby. 'I think it's probably Claire and Dudley come back. Won't you wait and see her?'
Bill shook his head.
'Well, good-bye for the present, then. You must come round again. Any friend of Claire's—and it was bully of you to bother about looking in to tell of Eustace.'
Bill had reached the door. He was about to turn the handle when someone turned it on the other side.
'Why, here is Dudley,' said Lady Wetherby. 'Dudley, this is a friend of Claire's.'
Dudley Pickering was one of those men who take the ceremony of introduction with a measured solemnity. It was his practice to grasp the party of the second part firmly by the hand, hold it, look into his eyes in a reverent manner, and get off some little speech of appreciation, short but full of feeling. The opening part of this ceremony he performed now. He grasped Bill's hand firmly, held it, and looked into his eyes. And then, having performed his business, he fell down on his lines. Not a word proceeded from him. He dropped the hand and stared at Bill amazedly and—more than that—with fear.
Bill, too, uttered no word. It was not one of those chatty meetings.
But if they were short on words, both Bill and Mr Pickering were long on looks. Bill stared at Mr Pickering. Mr Pickering stared at Bill.
Bill was drinking in Mr Pickering. The stoutness of Mr Pickering—the orderliness of Mr Pickering—the dullness of Mr Pickering—all these things he perceived. And illumination broke upon him.