The two were inclosed in the intimacy of their blended cigar-smoke when the door opened and Varick walked into the room.  Waythorn rose abruptly.  It was the first time that Varick had come to the house, and the surprise of seeing him, combined with the singular inopportuneness of his arrival, gave a new edge to Waythorn’s blunted sensibilities.  He stared at his visitor without speaking.

Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his host’s embarrassment.

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed in his most expansive tone, “I must apologize for tumbling in on you in this way, but I was too late to catch you down town, and so I thought—­” He stopped short, catching sight of Haskett, and his sanguine color deepened to a flush which spread vividly under his scant blond hair.  But in a moment he recovered himself and nodded slightly.  Haskett returned the bow in silence, and Waythorn was still groping for speech when the footman came in carrying a tea-table.

The intrusion offered a welcome vent to Waythorn’s nerves.  “What the deuce are you bringing this here for?” he said sharply.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but the plumbers are still in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Waythorn said she would have tea in the library.”  The footman’s perfectly respectful tone implied a reflection on Waythorn’s reasonableness.

“Oh, very well,” said the latter resignedly, and the footman proceeded to open the folding tea-table and set out its complicated appointments.  While this interminable process continued the three men stood motionless, watching it with a fascinated stare, till Waythorn, to break the silence, said to Varick:  “Won’t you have a cigar?”

He held out the case he had just tendered to Haskett, and Varick helped himself with a smile.  Waythorn looked about for a match, and finding none, proffered a light from his own cigar.  Haskett, in the background, held his ground mildly, examining his cigar-tip now and then, and stepping forward at the right moment to knock its ashes into the fire.

The footman at last withdrew, and Varick immediately began:  “If I could just say half a word to you about this business—­”

“Certainly,” stammered Waythorn; “in the dining-room—­”

But as he placed his hand on the door it opened from without, and his wife appeared on the threshold.

She came in fresh and smiling, in her street dress and hat, shedding a fragrance from the boa which she loosened in advancing.

“Shall we have tea in here, dear?” she began; and then she caught sight of Varick.  Her smile deepened, veiling a slight tremor of surprise.  “Why, how do you do?” she said with a distinct note of pleasure.

As she shook hands with Varick she saw Haskett standing behind him.  Her smile faded for a moment, but she recalled it quickly, with a scarcely perceptible side-glance at Waythorn.

“How do you do, Mr. Haskett?” she said, and shook hands with him a shade less cordially.