Why, it's Peter! cried Martha. I wish you had come sooner.
This is Peter Whiffle, she said, leading him into the room and then, as he extended his hand to me, You know Clara Barnes.
He turned away, to bow but I had already caught his interesting face, his deep blue eyes that shifted rather uneasily but at the same time remained honest and frank, his clear, simple expression, his high brow, his curly, blue-black hair, carefully parted down the centre of his head. He spoke to me at once.
Martha has said a good deal, perhaps too much about you. Still, I have wanted to meet you.
You must tell me who you are, I replied.
I should have told you, only you just arrived, Martha put in. I had no idea that Peter would come in today. He is the American Flaubert or Anatole France or something. He is writing a book. What is your book about, Peter?
Whiffle smiled, drew out a cigarette-case of Toledo work, extracted a cigarette from it, and said, I haven't the slightest idea. Then, as if he thought this might be construed as rudeness, or false modesty, or a rather viscous attempt at secrecy, he added, I really haven't, not the remotest. I want to talk to you about it. . . . That's why I wanted to meet you. Martha says that you know . . . well, that you know.
