The door of the public _salon_ stood
open, and the electric light had come on again. At the table, in the
centre of the room, sat Mr. Julian O'Farrell, _alias_ Giulio di Napoli,
conspicuously interested in an illustrated paper. He jumped up at sight
of me, and smiled a brilliant smile of welcome, but did not speak. A
sudden, obstinate determination seized me to thwart him, if he meant to
force the first move upon me. I bowed coolly, as one acknowledges the
existence of an hotel acquaintance, and passing to the other end of the
long table, picked up a _Je Sais Tout_ of a date two years before the
war.
I did not sit down, but assumed the air of hovering for a moment on my
way elsewhere. This manoeuvre kept the enemy on his feet; and as the
cheap but stately clock on the mantel ticked out second after second, I
felt nervously inclined to laugh, despite the seriousness of my
situation. I bit my lip hard to frighten away a smile that would have
spoilt everything. "If it goes on like this for an hour," I said to
myself, "I won't open my mouth!"
Into the midst of this vow broke an explosion of laughter that made me
start as if it announced a new bombardment. I looked up involuntarily,
and met the dark Italian eyes sparkling with fun. "I beg your pardon!"
the man gurgled. "I was wondering which is older, your _Je Sais Tout_ or
my _Illustration_? Mine's the Christmas number of 1909."
"Yours has the advantage in age," I replied, without a smile.
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