Claire dropped into the seat beside him. From the drawing-room came the soft tinkle of a piano. The sound blended harmoniously with the quiet peace of the night. Mr Pickering let his cigar go out and clutched the sides of his chair.
Oi'll—er—sing thee saw-ongs ov Arrabee,
Und—ah ta-ales of farrr Cash-mee-eere,
Wi-ild tales to che-eat thee ovasigh
Und charrrrm thee to-oo a tear-er.
Claire gave a little sigh.
'What a beautiful voice Mr Sherriff has!'
Dudley Pickering made no reply. He thought Roscoe Sherriff had a beastly voice. He resented Roscoe Sherriff's voice. He objected to Roscoe Sherriff's polluting this fair night with his cacophony.
'Don't you think so, Mr Pickering?'
'Uh-huh.'
'That doesn't sound very enthusiastic. Mr Pickering, I want you to tell me something. Have I done anything to offend you?'
Mr Pickering started violently.
'Eh?'