“Do you know Jeff?” asked Percy, who had witnessed the recognition.
“Yes. Jeffreys and I have met,” said Scarfe, not looking up from his book.
“Who is that young man?” said Mrs Scarfe, in an audible whisper to her hostess.
“The librarian here. Mr Jeffreys,” added Mrs Rimbolt, as Jeffreys stood irresolute, not knowing whether to remain in the room or go, “be good enough to tell Walker he can bring the coffee, and tell Mr Rimbolt we are expecting him.”
“Mr Rimbolt asked me to say you are not to wait coffee for him. He may be detained with a tenant in the library.”
“Jeff, I say, you should have been with us this afternoon. We had such larks. We got one or two pot shots, but didn’t hit anything except the dog. So it’s a good job we didn’t borrow Julius. Kennedy says we’re in for a ripping frost, so save yourself up, old man.”
“Percy, you talk like a stable-boy. Do remember you are in the drawing-room; and don’t detain Mr Jeffreys from his work.”
Under cover of this maternal exhortation Jeffreys withdrew.
“Rum your knowing Jeff, Scarfe!” said Percy, after he had gone; “was he at Oxford?”
“No,” said Scarfe. “It was at school. Surely that must be one of Hogarth’s engravings, Miss Atherton, it is exactly his style.”