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Updated: October 13, 2025
After a long pause Haswell said in a heavy voice: "I come here because I don't meet many men who insist on talking to me." "Oh, I beg pardon, old chap," Thayre hastily rose. "I'm sure I didn't mean " But before he could finish the big fellow put out a hand and gripped his arm until a pain shot to the elbow. "You are the one man I do want to see, Norvil.
"I'm sorry I made Len sore." The blond man spoke contritely. Then his voice snapped into animosity. "He's worth a dozen Paul Burtons, the vapid little piano-player." "Right-o!" Thayre stood with his feet well apart and his baldish head thrown back.
Thayre, with all his seeming of bluff and noisy gaiety, had an underlying tenderness of heart and delicacy of perception which made him a friend for troubled hours. He knew how to remain silent as well as how to be loquacious and he could radiate an unspoken sympathy. One evening the Englishman chanced on Haswell in the otherwise deserted reading-room of the National Union Club.
Thayre glanced up and started to add: "There's one now glaring at you," but he quickly bit off the words, for he recognized the stout frock-coated figure of old Tom Burton. Old Tom was progressing, for now before the lights were switched on something in his face told that the afternoon rubbers had not progressed without their libations.
He lounged over and dropped into a chair at Haswell's side. "That singularly frightful little ass, Larry Kirk, is going to cheer him up now," smiled Thayre. "Trust him to make himself a nuisance." "Not dancing much this evening, Len?" suggested Kirk by way of opening the conversation with the silent one. "No." The reply was curt.
And Paul I named for the great apostle." She laughed very low and her son knelt beside her chair and drew her into his embrace. Paul, who was named for the apostle, and Loraine Haswell had drifted further into midstream than either realized. Less keen observers than Norvil Thayre now spoke of their frequent meetings.
The manager bent an ear toward the outer door and recognized that there had been no resumption of the saturnalian chorus between his walls. "Mr. Thayre," he commented bitterly to the guest who had followed into the private room, "your friend there has put New Year's eve on the blink for my place this thing costs me thousands."
He's getting a bit squiffy, if you ask me," suggested Norvil Thayre to the group centered where the punch-bowl was being administered. Norvil Thayre was not having a grouch. If he had ever had a grouch he had kept his secret well. An American by adoption, he was still aggressively British in speech, dress and eccentricity.
A paroxysm of pain distorted his companion's face and his head flinched back as though it had been heavily struck. "God! yes, like a strangling man wants breath," he said. It was a misery for which there was no aid, so Thayre satisfied himself with the inquiry: "What is this thing you want me to do?" "Just intimate to these men that they stop asking those questions, that's all."
It won't hurt him now; he can do it. Oh, well. Here now, Mickey, don't you get sassy. One run more this afternoon. The Dogs run two or three times a day; why not the Jack?" "They're not shtakin' thayre loives, sor." "Oh, you get out."
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