He took another drink—neat again. Then he drummed on the table with the fingers of one hand.
If there is one thing above another that I abominate, it is that kind of idle drumming. He made it worse by whistling softly between his teeth a crude song of the streets. I knew that I must keep myself in hand, but could not help fidgeting a little in my chair.
Nervously self-centered as he was, my discomfort quite escaped him, of course. What stopped his whistling and drumming appeared to be a sudden thought that came to him with the tune.
He looked down at me. His eyes narrowed again. He opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it on the words that were so close to utterance.
When he did speak, I felt certain that his question was not the one he had meant at first to ask.
“How's the phonograph business?” he said, and tried to smile.
“It's all right,” I replied shortly.
He sat down on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, and smoked fast.
“What sort of place is that hotel of yours?” he inquired, after a little.
“Middling. Not so good as this.”