ly. "And besides, a
man's face doesn't count with a girl. Half of 'em are neurotics, anyway,
and they adore the bizarre--"

"Damn it," snapped Sam, "do you mean that my countenance resembles a
gargoyle? If you do, say so in English."

"No, no, no," said Annan soothingly,--"I've seen more awful
mugs--married mugs, too. What woman has done woman may do again. Buck
up! Beauty and the beast is no idle jest--"

"I'll punch you good and plenty," began Sam wrathfully, but Annan fled,
weak with laughter.

"There's no vainer man than an ugly one!" he called back, and slammed
the door to escape a flight of paint brushes hurled by a maddened man.

"I'll go! By jinks, I'll go, anyway!" he exclaimed; "and I don't care
what she thinks of my face ... only I think I'll take Annan with
me--just for company--or--dummy bridge on the way up.... Harry!" he
shouted.

Annan cautiously appeared, ready for rapid flight.

"Aw come on in! My face suits me. Besides, thank Heaven I've got a
reputation back of it; but yours breaks the speed laws. Will you go up
there with me--like a man?"

"Where?"

"To Estwich?"

"When?" inquired Annan, sceptically.

"Now!--b' jinks!"

"Have _you_ sufficient nerve, _this_ time?"

"Watch me."

And he dragged out a suit-case and began wildly throwing articles of
toilet and apparel into it,

"Come on, Harry!" he shouted, hurling a pair of tennis shoes at the
suit-case; "I've got to go while I'm excited or I'll never budge!"

But when, ten minutes later, Annan arrived, suit-case in hand, ready for
love's journey, he could scarcely contrive to kick and drag Sam into the
elevator, and, later, into a taxicab.

Ogilvy sat there alternately shivering and attempting to invent
imperative engagements in town which he had just remembered, but Annan
said angrily:

"No, you don't. This makes the seventh time I've started with you for
Estwich, and I'm going to put it through or perish in a hand-to-hand
conflict with you."

And he started for the train, dragging Sam with him, talking angrily all
the time.

He talked all the way to Estwich, too, partly to reassure Ogilvy and
give him no time for terrified reflection, partly because he liked to
talk. And when they arrived at the Estwich Arms he shoved Ogilvy into a
room, locked the door, and went away to telephone to the Countess
d'Enver.

"Yes?" she inquired sweetly, "who is it?"

"Me," replied Annan, regardless of an unpopular grammatical convention.