“Well, I’m at a loose end,” he said.  He took a gold cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette.  Traill continued his gymnastics with the shirt, forcing studs through obdurate holes, fastening links and muttering under his breath.

“I thought we might have dined together and taken the little lady to a music hall, like we did before.  How long ago was that?”

Traill tramped into the other room and came out, struggling with a collar.

“Oh, last September, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that, getting on for a year.  How is she?”

“Oh, first rate.  Will you have a drink?”

“No, thanks, old man.  Where are you going to?”

“I’m dining with my sister.  Going to some theatre, I believe.”

“Ah, I saw your sister the other day, about a couple of weeks ago.”  He seated himself, hitching his trousers above the uppers of his boots.  “Prince’s, I think it was.  Yes, she was skating with that Miss Standish-Roe.”

“Yes, she’s coming with my sister and me this evening.”

“Is she?” Again his eye lifted to Traill’s face.  “Damned pretty girl.”

Traill did not reply.  Had he made some casual answer in the affirmative, the man’s eyes might not have followed him as he walked back into his bedroom; the humorous twist of the man’s lips might not have been visible.  There would have been no thought to create it.

“What theatre are you going to?” he asked unconcernedly.

Traill mentioned the name, and began the singing of a hymn tune with impossible crescendos and various deviations from the melody.

  “’Can a woman’s tender care
    Cease toward the child she bare? 
    Yes, she may forgetful be ...’”

“I say!” he called out with unceremonious interruption to himself.

“What?”

“You say you’ve got a loose end?”

“Yes, there’s Time got to be killed somehow.”

“Well, take Sally out to dinner.”

“What, the little lady?”

“Yes, she’ll be lonely by herself.  I gave her such damned short notice about this engagement of mine that she didn’t have time to send for that friend of hers—­that Miss Hallard.  Would you mind doing that?  Don’t hesitate to say if you would.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t mind in the least.  But how about her?”

“I’ll call out to her.”

The visitor could hear him opening the door that led into the passage, then his voice—­

“Sally!” The clattering of feet above reached them, the hurried opening of another door, as though the person called for had been waiting eagerly for the summons.

“I’m coming,” she replied.  Her heels tapped loudly—­the quick successive knockings as on a cobbler’s last—­as she ran down the stairs.

“Mr. Devenish has come in to ask me to dinner, Sally,” he said, before she reached the bottom.  “He’s going to take you instead; I can’t go, of course.”