"
The big room that the screen divided had a grand piano in the dining
half, for use upon those Saturday evenings for which the old club was
still famous, but rarely touched during the working days of the week.
Yet even now a dark and cadaverous young man was raising the top of the
piano, slowly and laboriously, as though it were too heavy for him.
Valentine Venn looked over his shoulder.
"Good God!" said he. "Another fact worth most folks' fiction--another
coincidence you wouldn't dare to use!"
"Why--who is it?"
Venn's answer was to hail the dark, thin youth with rude geniality. The
young fellow hesitated, almost shrank, but came shyly forward in the
end. Langholm noted that he looked very ill, that his face was as
sensitive as it was thin and pale, but his expression singularly sweet
and pleasing.
"Severino," said Venn, with a play-actor's pomp, "let me introduce you
to Charles Langholm, the celebrated novelist--'whom not to know is to
argue yourself unknown.'"
"Which is the champion _non sequitur_ of literature," added Langholm,
with literary arrogance, as he took the lad's hand cordially in his own,
only to release it hurriedly before he crushed such slender fingers to
their hurt.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261