Hamlin's brow under the
shadow of his hat, but did not get lower than his eyes. He suddenly HAD
recalled the spendthrift Delatour perfectly, and as quickly regretted
now that he had not doubled the honorarium he had just sent to his
portionless daughter. But he only said, coolly, "No," and then, raising
his pale face and audacious eyes, continued in his laziest and most
insulting manner, "no: the fact is, my mind is just now preoccupied in
wondering if the gas is leaking anywhere, and if anything is ever served
over this bar except elegant conversation. When the gentleman who mixes
drinks comes back, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell him to send a
whisky sour to Mr. Jack Hamlin in the parlor. Meantime, you can turn off
your soda fountain: I don't want any fizz in mine."
Having thus quite recovered himself, Mr. Hamlin lounged gracefully
across the hall into the parlor. As he did so, a darkish young man, with
a slim boyish figure, a thin face, and a discontented expression,
rose from an armchair, held out his hand, and, with a saturnine smile,
said:--
"Jack!"
"Fred!"
The two men remained gazing at each other with a half-amused,
half-guarded expression.
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