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As Treddleford was about to pass out of the room he encountered Amblecope, also passing out, on his way to the billiard-room, where, perchance, some luckless wight might be secured and held fast to listen to the number of his attendances at the Grand Prix, with subsequent remarks on Newmarket and the Cambridgeshire.
"Be kind enough never to mention the Grand Prix in my hearing," said Treddleford desperately; "it awakens acutely distressing memories. I can't explain why without going into a long and complicated story." "Oh, certainly, certainly," said Amblecope hastily; long and complicated stories that were not told by himself were abominable in his eyes.
"Rather a long run for a wounded pheasant," snapped Amblecope. "The story rests on my aunt's authority," said Treddleford coldly, "and she is local vice-president of the Young Women's Christian Association.
She trotted three miles or so to her home, and it was not till the middle of the afternoon that it was discovered that the lunch for the entire shooting party was in a pannier attached to the pony's saddle. Anyway, she got her bird." "Some birds, of course, take a lot of killing," said Amblecope; "so do some fish.
The Ninevehs nursed her with devoted attention for weeks, and when I last heard from them she was well enough to go about her duties again, but the doctor says she will always suffer from Hagenbeck heart." Amblecope got up from his chair and moved to another part of the room. Treddleford reopened his book and betook himself once more across
There was silence for nearly half a minute in the smoking-room, and Treddleford began to let his mind steal back towards the golden road that led to Samarkand. Amblecope, however, rallied, and remarked in a rather tired and dispirited voice: "Talking of motor accidents, the narrowest squeak I ever had was the other day, motoring with old Tommy Yarby in North Wales.
He had already migrated from London the rain-swept to Bagdad the Beautiful, and stood by the Sun Gate "in the olden time" when an icy breath of imminent annoyance seemed to creep between the book and himself. Amblecope, the man with the restless, prominent eyes and the mouth ready mobilised for conversational openings, had planted himself in a neighbouring arm-chair.
There was no escape; in another moment he would be numbered among those who knew Amblecope to speak to or rather, to suffer being spoken to. The intruder was armed with a copy of Country Life, not for purposes of reading, but as an aid to conversational ice-breaking.
Amblecope made as if to pass out first, but a new-born pride was surging in Treddleford's breast and he waved him back. "I believe I take precedence," he said coldly; "you are merely the club Bore; I am the club Liar." Teresa, Mrs. Thropplestance, was the richest and most intractable old woman in the county of Woldshire.
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