"Time to dress for dinner, old man," he said, with exaggerated
carelessness.
"Very well," I answered, without giving him a clew to my suspicions; "I
will go with you to your rooms and see that you do the thing properly.
I suppose that every author must be a valet to his own hero."
He affected cheerful acceptance of my somewhat officious proposal to
accompany him. I could see that he was annoyed by it, and that fact
fastened deeper in my mind the conviction that he was meditating some
act of treachery.
When he had reached his apartments he said to me, with a too patronizing
air: "There are, as you perhaps know, quite a number of little
distinguishing touches to be had out of the dressing process. Some
writers rely almost wholly upon them. I suppose that I am to ring for
my man, and that he is to enter noiselessly, with an expressionless
countenance."
"He may enter," I said, with decision, "and only enter. Valets do not
usually enter a room shouting college songs or with St. Vitus's dance
in their faces; so the contrary may be assumed without fatuous or
gratuitous asseveration.
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