The next moment he flung up the metal box lid, dropped in his letter, and followed Quarrier into the club.
Then events tumbled forward almost without a push from him.

Quarrier was alone in a window corner, drinking vichy and milk and glancing over the afternoon papers.

He saw Mortimer, and invited him to join him; and Mortimer, being thirsty, took champagne.
"I've been trying a new coach," said Quarrier, in his colourless and rather agreeable voice; and he went on leisurely explaining the points of the new mail-coach which had been built in Paris after plans of his own, while Mortimer gulped glass after glass of chilled wine, which seemed only to make him thirstier.

Meantime he listened, really interested, except that his fleshy head was too full of alcohol and his own project to contain additional statistics concerning coaching.
Besides, Quarrier, who had never been over-cordial to him, was more so now--enough for Mortimer to venture on a few tentative suggestions of a financial nature; and though, as usual, Quarrier was not responsive, he did not, as usual, get up and go away.
A vague hope stirred Mortimer that it might not be beyond his persuasive tongue to make this chilly, reticent young man into a friend some day--a helpful friend.

For Mortimer all his life had trusted to his tongue; and though poorly enough repaid, the few lingual victories remained in his memory, along with an inexhaustible vanity and hope; while his countless defeats and the many occasions on which his tongue had played him false were all forgotten.