An
untidy writing-table and a sofa strewn with cushions in disorderly
attitudes testified to the fact that Nick had appropriated this room
for his own particular den. There was also a sun-bonnet tossed upon a
chair which seemed to indicate that Olga at least did not regard his
privacy as inviolable. The ancient brown volumes stacked upon shelves
that ranged almost from floor to ceiling were comfortably undisturbed.
It was plainly a sanctum in which ease and not learning ruled supreme.
Nick established his visitor in an easy-chair and hunted for an
ash-tray. Grange watched him uncomfortably.
"I'm awfully sorry about your arm, Ratcliffe," he said at length. "A
filthy bit of bad luck that."
"Damnable," said Nick.
"I've been meaning to look you up for a long time," Grange proceeded,
"but somehow it hasn't come off."
Nick laughed rather dryly. He was perfectly well aware that Grange had
been steadily avoiding him ever since his return. "Very good of you,"
he said, subsiding upon the sofa and pulling the cushions about him.
"I've been saving up my congratulations for you all these weeks. I
might have written, of course, but I had a notion that the spoken word
would be more forcible."
Grange stirred uneasily, neither understanding nor greatly relishing
Nick's tone. He wished vehemently that he would leave the subject
alone.
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