It was his practice to
grasp the party of the second part firmly by the hand, hold it,
look into his eyes in a reverent manner, and get off some little
speech of appreciation, short but full of feeling. The opening
part of this ceremony he performed now. He grasped Bill's hand
firmly, held it, and looked into his eyes. And then, having
performed his business, he fell down on his lines. Not a word
proceeded from him. He dropped the hand and stared at Bill
amazedly and--more than that--with fear.
Bill, too, uttered no word. It was not one of those chatty
meetings.
But if they were short on words, both Bill and Mr Pickering were
long on looks. Bill stared at Mr Pickering. Mr Pickering stared at
Bill.
Bill was drinking in Mr Pickering. The stoutness of Mr Pickering--the
orderliness of Mr Pickering--the dullness of Mr Pickering--all these
things he perceived. And illumination broke upon him.
Mr Pickering was drinking in Bill. The largeness of Bill--the
embarrassment of Bill--the obvious villainy of Bill--none of these
things escaped his notice. And illumination broke upon him also.
For Dudley Pickering, in the first moment of their meeting, had
recognized Bill as the man who had been lurking in the grounds and
peering in at the window, the man at whom on the night when he had
become engaged to Claire he had shouted 'Hi!'
'Where's Claire, Dudley?' asked Lady Wetherby.
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