He sort of stopped and twitched, and
appeared to shrink back in his chair: I presume my tones went straight
through the poor twisted invalid's head. He must have fancied me (from the
racket I was making) as a sort of free-and-easy Hercules (which is not
quite the case), if not as the whole football squad rolled into one.
Whether he really saw me, then or thereafter, I don't know; he wore a sort
of green shade over his eyes. Of course I met him in due form. I tried not
to give his poor hand too much of a wring (another of my bad habits); but
he took all I gave and even seemed to hang on for a little more. He sat
quietly to one side for a while, and I tried not to act the bull of Bashan
again. Anyhow, he didn't start a second time. Presently he pulled out
rather unceremoniously: the two young business-men had begun a sort of
burlesque fandango, and their feet were pretty noisy on the bare floor. He
started off after looking toward the piano and then toward me; and Mrs.
Phillips glanced about as if to hint that any display of surprise or of
indulgence would be misplaced. Poor chap!--well, I'm glad he didn't see me
dancing.
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