He adjusted his glasses, frowned, and shook his head.
"I am becoming unobservant," he said crossly. "This place is playing
the very deuce with my mental processes! But stay: surely your hair
is arranged differently? It wasn't brought over your ears like that,
the first time I saw you, I know it wasn't!"
"It is curled a little and fluffed a little; that's what makes it
look different," I told him patiently.
"Then that frock is curled a little and fluffed a little, and that's
what makes it look different, too," The Author decided, and stared
at me critically. "You are improving," he told me, with
condescension.
"You are _not_!" I was goaded to reply.
The Author merely grinned.
"Do you know," he asked, "if that man Jelnik is coming to-night? I
hope so. Unusual man. Can't think why he buries himself here! Our
old friend Gatchell doesn't seem to admire him. I wonder why?"
"I can't possibly imagine," I replied equably, "unless it is that
the judge grows old."
"Hah!" The Author's eyebrows went up truculently. "And is it a sign
of advancing age and mental decrepitude not to admire this fellow?"
But I laughed at him.
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