FOXHALL CLIFFORD.
RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT.
“Why the devil dosen’t he want me to speak of her?”
He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.
Elliot sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.
“Hello,” he said, without looking around.
Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings,—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire———”
“Yes, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”
“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.
“Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.”
“More shame to those who dispel ’em!”
“Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course———”
Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.
“I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have intended———”
