"
Van Sweller slightly elevated his brows.
"Oh, very well," he said, a trifle piqued. "I rather imagine it concerns
you more than it does me. Cut the 'tub' by all means, if you think best.
But it has been the usual thing, you know."
This was my victory; but after Van Sweller emerged from his apartments
in the "Beaujolie" I was vanquished in a dozen small but well-contested
skirmishes. I allowed him a cigar; but routed him on the question of
naming its brand. But he worsted me when I objected to giving him a
"coat unmistakably English in its cut." I allowed him to "stroll down
Broadway," and even permitted "passers by" (God knows there's nowhere
to pass but by) to "turn their heads and gaze with evident admiration
at his erect figure." I demeaned myself, and, as a barber, gave him a
"smooth, dark face with its keen, frank eye, and firm jaw."
Later on he looked in at the club and saw Freddy Vavasour, polo team
captain, dawdling over grilled bone No. 1.
"Dear old boy," began Van Sweller; but in an instant I had seized him
by the collar and dragged him aside with the scantiest courtesy.
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