Passing over the short journey, then—throughout which almost every word of Mr. Dewson’s inspired O’Hagan with a new wonder at the shamelessness of the times, and added fuel to his resentment—enter the house of Ronald Brandon, novelist.
“Here he is, Brandon!” cried the press agent. “He’s coming in on it!”
Ronald Brandon was a tall and good-looking young man, carrying a certain athletic arrogance with poor grace. From his perfectly groomed fair hair to his white spatted, immaculately glossy boots he was an incarnate error of judgment. He had been encouraged to think himself a celebrity—and the whole thing was a mistake. He was not even in the same flight with the double of Napoleon III.
His casually extended hand Captain O’Hagan failed to observe. O’Hagan bowed with exceeding fine formality.
“Going to have a little bout with me, Captain?” laughed Brandon lightly.
“I am looking forward to it,” was the reply, “provided your status admits of my crossing swords with you.”
Dewson and Brandon stared uncomprehendingly.
“I mean, are you of gentle blood? To what Brandons do you belong?”
The novelist continued to stare.
“My governor is James Brandon, K.C., if that’s what you’re driving at!”