"Who's there?" growled a voice within.
"Lintorn. May I come in?"
Without waiting for the required permission he entered. The hero was still in bed. There was that look about him which is noticeable in the ordinarily sober youth who has enjoyed the night before not wisely, but too well. And his eye--outside the actual organ--was a beautiful black. Mr Lintorn started at sight of these signs of mourning.
"Davison, I had no idea--"
"You had no idea of what, sir? What do you mean by entering my room?"
"I cannot express to you how ashamed of myself I feel. I--I had no idea that I had hit so hard."
Mr Lintorn felt--too late--that this was one of those delicate subjects which are best avoided. But the words were spoken.
"Look here, Mr Lintorn: I chanced to stay in the same hotel with you at Nice, and it has suited me since, as a traveller, to adapt my movements to yours. Beyond that, you are a perfect stranger to me. You are, at best, but a chance acquaintance. Be so good as to consider that acquaintance dropped."
Mr Davison spoke, or intended to speak, with the dignity and the hauteur which are appropriate to the travelling man of fashion, who has spent six weeks abroad. But such a character is difficult to maintain when one has "hot coppers" and a black eye, and is lying in bed. None the less Mr Lintorn perceived that the present was not a favourable moment for argument. He fixed his glass in his eye, gave Mr Davison just one look, bowed, and left him to his dignity.
Mr Davison rang for his shaving-water, and the waiter who brought it was so indiscreet as to notice the gentleman's condition--the condition, that is, of what has been called his optic.