Quelch was shocked. I hardly liked to tell him. He's so sensitive. I remember once" Mrs. Crisp was interrupted in her reminiscences by Drewitt rising to go. She turned upon him full of regrets, gush and assurances that she was certain he was psychic.
As he was shaking hands with Lola, Beresford managed to tell her that he felt a relapse coming on, and asked if she would spare him an hour or two.
She shook her head, a little sadly, he thought.
"I'm in disgrace," she pouted, "and I must be nice to auntie to make up for Folkestone." She gave him a mischievous glance. "I've been having such a lecture on the proprieties."
That was all. No word of when he was to see her.
"I don't know which I most dislike about Mr. Quelch," said Drewitt, as they passed down the steps of the Belle Vue, "his name, his moustache, or his accent. I like cockneys; but not in frock-coats," he added.
Beresford smiled vaguely; but made no reply.
"I wonder," continued Drewitt, as they walked down Piccadilly, "why it is that all men with generous moustaches seem to have a passion for thick soup." Then after a pause he added, "Those with dark moustaches apparently prefer white soups, whilst those with light moustaches select the darker fluids. It's interesting."
But Beresford was not listening. He was thinking of the void he had just discovered in his life.
