“Yes,” returned I, “I’m rather a good judge of—that panel.”
There was a considerable pause.
“You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don’t you?” he resumed.
“Ah!” cried I, “you have heard from Dr. Urquart?”
“This very morning,” he replied.
“Well, there is no hurry about Bellairs,” said I. “It’s rather a long story, and rather a silly one. But I think we have a good deal to tell each other, and perhaps we had better wait till we are more alone.”
“I think so,” said he. “Not that any of these fellows know English, but we’ll be more comfortable over at my place.—Your health, Dodd.”
And we took wine together across the table.
Thus had this singular introduction passed unperceived in the midst of more than thirty persons, art-students, ladies in dressing-gowns and covered with rice powder, six foot of Siron whisking dishes over our head, and his noisy sons clattering in and out with fresh relays.
“One question more,” said I: “did you recognise my voice?”