Page:Walpole--portrait of man with red hair.djvu/116

 hall was anæmic and dark, with the trap to catch visitors some way down on the right. There seemed to be no one about. Harkness pushed open a door and at once found himself in one of those little hotel drawing-rooms that are so peculiarly British, compounded as they are of ferns and discretion, convention and an untuned piano. In this little room a young man was sitting alone. Harkness knew at once that his search was over. He knew where it was that he had heard the name Dunbar before—this was his young man of the high road, the wandering seaman and the serious appointment, the young man of his expectant charge.

There was yet, however, room for mistake and so he waited standing in the doorway. The young man was bending forward in a red plush armchair, eagerly watching. He recognised Harkness at once as his friend of the afternoon.

"Hullo!" he said, and then hurriedly, "why, what has been happening to you?"

Harkness stepped forward into the room. "To me?" he said.

"Why, yes. You're sweating. Your collar's undone. You look as though you had run a mile."

"Oh, that!" Harkness blushed, fingering his collar that had broken from its stud. "I've been dancing."

"Dancing?"