When Snooky had let him in, Rivers dashed up the stairs of the
Bessemers' flat, two at a time, tossed his stick into a porcelain
cane-rack in the hall, wrenched off his overcoat with a single
movement, and precipitated himself, panting, into the dining-room,
tugging at his gloves.

He was twenty-eight years old--nearly ten years older than Travis;
tall and somewhat lean; his face smooth-shaven and pink all over,
as if he had just given it a violent rubbing with a crash towel.
Unlike most writing folk, he dressed himself according to
prevailing custom. But Condy overdid the matter. His scarfs and
cravats were too bright, his colored shirt-bosoms were too broadly
barred, his waistcoats too extreme. Even Travis, as she rose to
his abrupt entrance? told herself that of a Sunday evening a pink
shirt and scarlet tie were a combination hardly to be forgiven.

Condy shook her hand in both of his, then rushed over to Mr.
Bessemer, exclaiming between breaths: "Don't get up, sir--don't
THINK of it! Heavens! I'm disgustingly late. You're all through.
My watch--this beastly watch of mine--I can't imagine how I came
to be so late. You did quite right not to wait."

Then as his morbidly keen observation caught a certain look of
blankness on Travis' face, and his rapid glance noted no vacant
chair at table, he gave a quick gasp of dismay.

"Heavens and earth! didn't you EXPECT me?" he cried. "I thought
you said--I thought--I must have forgotten--I must have got it
mixed up somehow. What a hideous mistake, what a blunder! What a
fool I am!"