with a dignity which did not permit him to turn round.

"Never while it annoys you, child."

"Mr. Waverton is in labour with a poem," Harry explained.

"And it's indecent in me to be present at the ceremony? Well, Geoffrey,
postpone the birth." He sat himself down at his ease in Geoffrey's chair.
He was a compact man with only one arm. He looked ten years older than
Geoffrey and was, in fact, five. The campaign in Flanders which had
destroyed his right arm had set and hardened a frame and face by nature
solid enough. That face was long and angular, with a heavy chin and an
expression of sardonic complacency oddly increased by the jauntiness of
its shabby brown wig.

Waverton turned round wearily upon the unwelcome guest. "Well, Charles,
what is it?"

"It is nothing. My dear Geoffrey, if I had anything to do or anything to
say why should I come to you?"

"_Merci_, monsieur," Waverton smiled gracious indulgence.

Mr. Hadley chuckled, and in French replied: "Yes, let's talk French; it
embellishes our simple wit and elevates our souls above the vulgar."

There is reason to believe that Waverton liked his French better in
fragments than continuously. He still smiled condescension, but risked no
other answer.