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."
This led to an awkward pause, Mr. Crewe not being a man who found profit in idle discussion. He glanced at Mr. Braden's philanthropic and beaming countenance, which would have made the fortune of a bishop. It was not usual for Mr. Crewe to find it difficult to begin a conversation, or to have a companion as self-sufficient as himself. This man Braden had all the fun, apparently, in sitting in a chair and looking into space that Stonewall Jackson had, or an ordinary man in watching a performance of "A Trip to Chinatown." Let it not be inferred, again, that Mr. Crewe was abashed; but he was puzzled.
"I had an engagement in Ripton this morning," he said, "to see about some business matters. And after I received your telephone I thought I'd drop in here."
"Didn't telephone," said Mr. Braden, placidly.
"What!" said Mr. Crewe, "I certainly got a telephone message."