“C—come in,” said a voice. “Come in.”
Mr. Crewe entered, the hall boy closed the door, and he found himself face to face with a comfortable, smooth-faced man seated with great placidity on a rocking-chair in the centre of the room, between the bed and the marble-topped table: a man to whom, evidently, a rich abundance of thought was sufficient company, for he had neither newspaper nor book. He rose in a leisurely fashion, and seemed the very essence of the benign as he stretched forth his hand.
“I'm Mr. Crewe,” the owner of that name proclaimed, accepting the hand with no exaggeration of cordiality. The situation jarred on him a trifle.
“I know. Seed you on the road once or twice. How be you?”
Mr. Crewe sat down.
“I suppose you are Mr. Braden,” he said.
Mr. Braden sank into the rocker and fingered a waistcoat pocket full of cigars that looked like a section of a cartridge-belt.
“T—try one of mine,” he said.
“I only smoke once after breakfast,” said Mr. Crewe.
“Abstemious, be you? Never could find that it did me any hurt.”