Sir Seymour bowed, and said:
“Thanks.”
“Sit down, my boy!” said Garstin, with sudden heartiness, laying a hand on Arabian’s shoulder. “And I know you’ll put your lips to a whisky.”
“Thank you,” said Arabian.
And he sat down in a deep arm-chair. Sir Seymour saw his brown eyes, for a moment hard and inquiring, rest upon the visitor he had not expected to find, and wondered whether Arabian remembered having seen him before. If so Arabian would also remember that he, Seymour, was a friend of Adela Sellingworth, who had been with him at the Ritz on that day ten years ago.
“Say how much,” said Garstin, coming up with the whisky.
Sir Seymour noticed that Arabian took a great deal of the spirit and very little soda-water with it. Directly his glass was filled—it was a long glass—he drank almost greedily.
“A cigar?” said Garstin. “But I know without asking.”
“I do not refuse,” said Arabian.
And Sir Seymour hated his voice, while realizing that it was agreeable, perhaps even seductive.