On his way out, he went into the writing-room, and, tearing into little pieces a letter which he had written that afternoon, left the fragments behind him in the waste-paper basket.
His exit from the room was meanwhile producing its sequel in a little incident which would have astonished Langholm considerably.

Severino had been playing for nearly an hour on end, had seemed thoroughly engrossed in his own fascinating performance, and quite oblivious of the dining and smoking going on around him according to the accepted ease and freedom of the club.

Yet no sooner was Langholm gone than the pianist broke off abruptly and joined the group which the other had deserted.
"Who is that fellow ?" said Severino, in English so perfect that the slight Italian accent only added a charm to his gentle voice.

"I did not catch the name." It was repeated, with such additions as may be fairly made behind a man's back.
"A dashed good fellow, who writes dashed bad novels," was one of these.
"You forget!" said another.

"He is the 'well-known novelist' who is going the rounds as a neighbor and friend of Mrs.--" Looks from Venn and the doctor cut short the speech, but not before its import had come home to the young Italian, whose hollow cheeks flushed a dusky brown, while his sunken eyes caught fire.