He was a lean, dark young man with lustrous eyes, very wide riding-breeches, and a waist like a girl’s. He wore the badges of a captain. He bowed to Miss Kolin and smiled pleasantly at George.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in English. “The patron tells me that you are here making inquiries.”
“That’s right.”
He clicked his heels. “Streftaris, Captain,” he said. “You are an American, Mr.-?”
“Carey’s my name. Yes, I’m an American.”
“And this lady?”
“Miss Kolin is French. She is my interpreter.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you, Mr. Carey.”
“That’s very kind of you, Captain. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” The Captain spun the chair round, swung the seat between his legs, and sat down with his elbows resting on the back. There was something curiously insolent about the gesture. He smiled less pleasantly. “You have made the patron feel very uneasy, Mr. Carey.”