Marlowe?" asked Billie, addressing the boots.
Sam wriggled out from under the desk like a disconcerted tortoise.
"Dropped my pen," he mumbled, as he rose to the surface.
He pulled himself with an effort that was like a physical exercise. He
stared at Billie dumbly. Then, recovering speech, he invited her to sit
down, and seated himself at the desk.
"Dropped my pen!" he gurgled again.
"Yes?" said Billie.
"Fountain-pen," babbled Sam, "with a broad nib."
"Yes?"
"A broad gold nib," went on Sam, with the painful exactitude which
comes only from embarrassment or the early stages of intoxication.
"Really?" said Billie, and Sam blinked and told himself resolutely that
this would not do. He was not appearing to advantage. It suddenly
occurred to him that his hair was standing on end as the result
of his struggle with Widgery. He smoothed it down hastily, and
felt a trifle more composed. The old fighting spirit of the Marlowes
now began to assert itself to some extent. He must make an effort to
appear as little of a fool as possible in this girl's eyes.
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