“My dear, this is—”
“I beg your pardon, Finche, but could I—” I burst in.
“This is Mr. Price, of London, a friend of—”
“Finche, I may as well”— But the pompous old ass would have his bray, and Price was conversing with Hattie Finche ere I could utter the words of explanation that were ready to spring from my lips.
“Gentlemen, you would like to wash your hands. Just step up to my sanctum. Tompkins” (to a servant), “show these gentlemen to my sanctum.”
When the door had closed upon us, “Mr. Price,” I said, “do you call this fair?”
“Everything is fair in love.”
“Bosh, sir! You find in me a man unwilling to wound the feelings of another. I have gained nothing by acting the part of a gentleman.”
“I deny that!” his coat off, his head deep in the marble basin. “You’ve made me your friend for life.”
“And who might you be?”