We caught Bruce McIvor just as he was about to go out. I think I have
never seen a man quite so blankly amazed as he when the letter of
appointment was placed in his hand. I am more or less accustomed to the
various emotions expressed by the victims of O’Hagan’s extraordinary
philanthropy; but McIvor was positively alarming. He seemed to be dazed.
I think he experienced that kind of sentiment which makes a Frenchman
weep, intoxicates an Irishman, but chokes a Scotsman.
In the cab which O’Hagan had in waiting we were a silent trio. O’Hagan
leant back humming a gay melody, whilst McIvor sat watching him as if he
half expected him to vanish like some Arabian _ginn_.
Into a charming little villa we filed. McIvor’s nervousness was
appalling. He kept close to my distinguished friend, and hung upon his
words as though in them alone he hoped for salvation. In a pretty,
_petite_ drawing-room we waited; the young Scot, seated on the edge of a
chair, looking like a man on trial for murder; I hard put to it to
preserve a serene countenance; and O’Hagan wandering from picture to
picture, and surveying each through his uplifted monocle with the
critical gaze of a connoisseur.
Then he turned the glass upon the door, drawing himself up with
inimitable grandeur
Entered a very pretty girl, and a very prim lady, more mature;
excellently but dryly, preserved.
McIvor rose and coughed and looked everywhere but straight before him.
The pretty girl blushed frantically. The other lady stared, extending
her hand to O’Hagan.
O’Hagan bowed. O’Hagan’s bow is a notable event.