Neergard sat down; Ruthven gazed out of the window, then, soft thumbs
hooked in his sash, turned leisurely in impudent interrogation.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" asked Neergard, for the subtle
something he had been encountering all day had suddenly seemed to wall
him out of all he had conquered, forcing him back into the simpler
sordid territory where ways and modes of speech were more familiar to
him--where the spontaneous crudity of expression belonged among the
husks of all he had supposed discarded for ever.
"Really," observed Ruthven, staring at the seated man, "I scarcely
understand your remark."
"Well, you'll understand it perhaps when I choose to explain it," said
Neergard. "I see there's some trouble somewhere. What is it? What's the
matter with Orchil, and that hatchet-faced beagle-pup, Mottly? _Is_
there anything the matter, Jack?"
"Nothing important," said Ruthven with an intonation which troubled
Neergard. "Did you come here to--ah--ask anything of me? Very glad to do
anything, I'm sure.
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