after her, cap in hand, scratching his red hair, amazement and grief and hurt pride in his honest features, finally relieving his injured feelings by a tremendous:
"Well, I'll be. . ."
"I say! Don't speak out your thoughts so freely, my dear sir!" Another voice came to his ear, a man's voice this time and frankly, aggressively British. "Never say you'll be damned or anything as rash as that before you've tried some of that ripping medicine against it they sell down across the saloon bar, what?"
Tom looked up.
The speaker was a young man about his own age, his own height, though a little broader. His hair (he wore his cap in his hand) was honey-colored and neatly parted down the center; his sack suit was tightly tailored and of an extravagant, hairy, green Harris tweed; his heavy brogues were topped by brown cloth spats; and his face, round, rosy, blue-eyed, open, was ornamented by a tiny mustache and an immense, gold-rimmed monocle.
The final seal to this typical specimen of traveling Briton was given by a short briar pipe clamped between his teeth; and when Tom Graves looked at him, dazed, rather overcome, the Englishman continued:
"My name's Vyvyan, if you want to stand upon ceremonies," giving him his card.
Tom took it and read thereon:
"Lord Herbert Vyvyan
Bury St-Edmonds."
"Mr—Bury St-Edmonds?" stammered Tom.
"Gad, no! That's my address, home in England. Vyvyan—that's my name!"
