"
This shows how far I had let that attack of snobbishness eat into me. I
glanced down at my hands. No delicateness there; certainly those fingers,
though white enough nowadays, and long enough, too, were not made for fancy
work and parlor tricks. They would have looked in place round the handle
of a spade or the throttle of an engine, while Sam's seemed made for the
keyboard of a piano.
"You must come over to my rooms after dinner, and give me some music," said
I.
"Thanks," he replied, "but I've promised to go home and play bridge.
Mother's got a few in to dinner, and more are coming afterward, I believe."
"Then I'll go with you, and talk to your sister--she doesn't play."
He glanced at me in a way that made me pass my hand over my face. I learned
at least part of the reason for my feeling at disadvantage before him. I
had forgotten to shave; and as my beard is heavy and black, it has to be
looked after twice a day. "Oh, I can stop at my rooms and get my face into
condition in a few minutes," said I.
"And put on evening dress, too," he suggested. "You wouldn't want to go in
a dinner jacket."
I can't say why this was the "last straw," but it was.
"Bother!" said I, my common sense smashing the spell of snobbishness that
had begun to reassert itself as soon as I got into his unnatural, unhealthy
atmosphere.
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