sipping at intervals in a communion probably satisfying, since neither showed any other sign of life; but as Ogle appeared one of them became slightly animated. He was a frail-bodied, fair young man, with a long, pale nose, a faint chin, eye-glasses over greenish twinklings, and, for the semblance of a moustache, a few tiny spikes apparently of fine hay.
"Laurence Ogle!" he said, bestirring himself to extend a hand. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Have something? Anyhow, sit down with us, won't you? This is Mr. Macklyn—George Wilmer Macklyn—you ought to know each other. I was just telling him you were on board."
"He didn't need to tell me," Mr. Macklyn said, as Ogle took a chair facing the divan. "This idiot of an Albert Jones thinks all other people are idiots because he is. I saw that you were to be on the 'Duumvir' in the theatrical notes of a newspaper the morning before we sailed. Naturally I was interested, because I'd seen your new play only the night before. I considered it a very impressive piece of work."
The blond Mr. Jones laughed. "You can believe Macklyn means it, Laurence," he was kind enough
