V. West." He never varied this joke, and Babbacombe
usually noted it with a faint frown. The fellow was not a bad sort, he
was convinced, but he would always be more or less of an enigma to him.
He returned to Farringdean in the middle of January with one of his
married sisters, whom he had secured to act as hostess to his party. He
invited West to dine with them informally on the night of his return.
His sister, Lady Cottesbrook, a gay and garrulous lady some years his
senior, received the new agent with considerable condescension. She
bestowed scant attention upon him during dinner, and West presented his
most impenetrable demeanour in consequence, refusing steadily to avail
himself of Babbacombe's courteous efforts to draw him into the
conversation.
He would have excused himself later from accompanying his host into the
drawing-room, but Babbacombe insisted upon this so stubbornly that
finally, with his characteristic lift of the shoulders, he yielded.
As they entered, Lady Cottesbrook raised her glasses, and favoured him
with a close scrutiny.
"It's very curious," she said, "but I can't help feeling as if I have
seen you somewhere before. You have the look of some one I knew years
ago--some one I didn't like--but I can't remember who."
"Just as well, perhaps," said Babbacombe, with a careless laugh, though
a faint flush of annoyance rose in his face.
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