desperately for a moment, and then blurted out—“I didn’t know who you were at first—when I got your note—but then somebody told me:—you’re Professor Hatcher’s assistant, aren’t you?”
“Ace,” said Starwick, this strange sound which was intended for “yes” coming through his lips in the same curious and almost motionless fashion. The brick-red hue of his ruddy face deepened painfully, and for a moment he was silent—“Look!” he said suddenly, yet with a casualness that was very warm and welcome after the stilted formality of his greeting, “would you like a drink? I have some whisky.”
“Why, yes—sure—certainly,” the other stammered, almost feverishly grateful for the diversion—“I’d like it.”
Starwick opened the doors of a small cupboard, took out a bottle, a siphon, and some glasses on a tray, and placed them on a table.
“Help yourself,” he said. “Do you like it with soda—or plain water—or how?”
“Why—any way you do,” the other youth stammered. “Aren’t you going to drink? I don’t want to unless you do.”
“Ace,” said Starwick again, “I’ll drink with you. I like the soda,” he added, and poured a drink for himself and filled it with the siphon. “Go on. Pour your own…. Look,” he said abruptly again, as the other youth was awkwardly manipulating the unaccustomed siphon. “Do you mind if I drink mine while I’m shaving? I just came in. I’d like to shave and change my shirt before we go out. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not,” the other said, grateful for the respite thus afforded. “Go ahead. Take all the time you like. I’ll drink my drink and have a look at your books, if you don’t mind.”
“Please do,” said Starwick, “if you find anything you like. I think this is the best chair.” He pushed a big chair up beneath a reading lamp and switched the light on. “There are cigarettes on the table,” he said in his strange mannered tone, and went into the bathroom, where, after a moment’s inspection of his ruddy face, he immediately began to lather himself and to prepare for shaving.
“This is a nice place you have here,” the visitor said presently, after another awkward pause, during which the only sound was the minute scrape of the razor blade on Starwick’s face.
“Quite,” he answered concisely, in his mannered tone, and with that blurred sound of people who try to talk while they are shaving. For a few moments the razor scraped on. “I’m glad you like it,” Starwick said presently, as he put the razor down and began to inspect his work in the mirror. “
