And what'll you have to drink? I take plain water in mine,
but there's soda if you prefer it. And which shall it
be--Irish or Scotch?"
Mr. Tavender's countenance revealed the extremity of his
surprise and confusion at the warmth of this welcome.
It apparently awed him as well, for though he shrank into
a corner of the huge chair, he painstakingly abstained from
resting his head against its back. Uncovered, this head
gained a certain dignity of effect from the fashion
in which the thin, iron-grey hair, parted in the middle,
fell away from the full, intellectual temples, and curled
in meek locks upon his collar. A vague resemblance
to the type of Wesley--or was it Froebel?--might have
hinted itself to the observer's mind.
Thorpe's thoughts, however, were not upon types.
"Well"--he said, from the opposite chair, in his roundest,
heartiest voice, when the other had with diffidence suffered
himself to be served, and had deferentially lighted
on one side the big cigar pressed upon him--"Well--and
how's the world been using you?"
"Not very handsomely, Mr. Thorpe," the other responded,
in a hushed, constrained tone.
"Oh, chuck the Misters!" Thorpe bade him. "Aren't we
old pals, man? You're plain Tavender, and I'm plain Thorpe."
"You're very kind," murmured Tavender, still abashed.
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