"Hullo, Mr. Carville," he said. "Come to finish the story? Wait till I tell the wife."
"Now where's the hurry?" said our neighbour, deprecatingly, and sitting down he began to cut up some tobacco. I looked across at New York, still surrounded in diaphanous mist, and endeavoured to adjust my mind to the immediate business. Since dinner the night before I had been indulging in somewhat frothy speculation. It was only fair that Mr. Carville should have the floor and speak for himself. Bill came out and nodded brightly. None of us suggested waiting for Miss Fraenkel. I think we were anxious to hear a little more of Mr. Carville before Miss Fraenkel arrived; a sort of presentiment, if you like.
"Do tell us about your brother, Mr. Carville," said Bill. "What happened to him?"
Mr. Carville struck a match and puffed away in the conscientious manner demanded by a corn-cob.
"Why, of course," he said, carefully expelling a jet of smoke from the corner of his closed lips, "he came back, my brother did."
Bill looked at him in tragic annoyance.