"Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the
supper; he's with Holker Morris, you know."
"Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off
upstairs. Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever
fellow, Minott. My Governor wanted me to do something in
architecture, but it takes such a lot of time ... Funny how a
fellow will dress himself." Biffton's sleepy eyes were sweeping
the Avenue. "Pendergast just passed wearing white spats--A month
too late for spats--ought to know better. Touch the bell, Breen,
and say what."
Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence.
Rather a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't
touch a bell and say what.
Jack having a certain timidity about "butting in"--outsiders
didn't do such things where he came from--settled himself into
the depths of the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited
for Garry to finish his game. From where he sat he could not only
overlook the small tables holding a choice collection of little
tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice and high-pressure siphons, but
his eye also took in the stretch beyond, the club windows
commanding the view up and down and quite across the Avenue, as
well as the vista to the left.
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