Daniel's accent had
nothing at all in keeping with a shabby coat; that of the younger
man was less markedly refined, with much more of individuality.
"You live in London?" inquired Daniel, reading the other's look as
if affectionately.
"No. Out at Ewell--in Surrey."
"Oh yes, I know Ewell. Reading?"
"Yes for the Civil Service. I've come up to lunch with a man who
knows father--Mr. Jacks."
"John Jacks, the M.P.?"
Piers nodded nervously, and the other regarded him with a smile of
new interest.
"But you're very early. Any other engagements?"
"None," said Piers. It being so fine a morning, he had proposed a
long ramble about London streets before making for his destination
in the West End.
"Then you must come to my club," returned Daniel. "I shall be glad
of a talk with you, very glad, my dear boy. Why, it must be four
years since we saw each other. And, by the bye, you are just of age,
I think?"
"Three days ago."
"To be sure. Heard anything from father?--No?--You're looking
very well, Piers--take my arm. I understood you were going into
business. Altered your mind? And how is the dear old man?"
They walked for a quarter of an hour, turning at last into a quiet,
genteel byway westward of Regent Street, and so into a club house of
respectable appearance. Daniel wrote his brother's name, and led up
to the smoking-room, which they found unoccupied.
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