XVII
A CONFERENCE
The elegantly modulated accents of Aristocrates, announcing the imminence of luncheon, aroused Barres from disconcerted but wrathful reflections.
As he sat up and tenderly caressed his battered head, Thessalie and Dulcie came slowly into the studio together, their arms interlaced.
Both exclaimed at the sight of the young man’s swollen face, but he checked their sympathetic enquiries drily:
“Bumped into something. It’s nothing. How are you, Dulcie? All right again?”
She nodded, evidently much concerned about his disfigured forehead; so to terminate sympathetic advice he went away to bathe his bruises in witch hazel, and presently returned smelling strongly of that time-honoured panacea, and with a saturated handkerchief adorning his brow.
At the same time, there came a considerable thumping and bumping from the corridor; the bell rang, and Westmore appeared with the trunks—five of them. These a pair of brawny expressmen rolled into the studio and carried thence to the storeroom which separated the bedroom and bath from the kitchen.
“Any trouble?” enquired Barres of Westmore, when the expressmen had gone.
“None at all. Nobody looked at me twice. What’s happened to your noddle?”