glowed. Without a word he came into the room, and gripped the hand of his brother, then stood gazing as if he would never get enough.
And then George Harrowby spoke.
"Is that a ready-made suit you have on, Allan?" he asked huskily.
"Why—why—yes, George."
"I thought so. It's a rotten bad fit, Allan. A rotten bad fit."
Thus did George Harrowby greet the first of his kin he had seen in a quarter of a century. Thus did he give the lie to fiction, and to Trimmer, writer of "fancy seeing you after all these years" speeches.
He dropped his younger brother's hand and strode to the window. He looked out. The courtyard of the De la Pax was strangely misty even in the morning sunlight. Then he turned, smiling.
"How's the old boy?" he asked.
"He's well, George. Speaks of you—now and then. Think he'd like to see you. Why not run over and look him up?"
"I will." George Harrowby turned again to the
