“Intervals between what?”
“Between seasons of plenty.” He was now in trousers and vest. He looked at his chin in the glass. “Oh, but I must shave! Excuse me a moment.”
He ran out of the room, and was back in a minute or two with a jug of steaming water. As he stropped his razor, he went on, as though there had been no interruption: “But on the whole I have much to be thankful for. Brains will tell even—or indeed especially—in a stupid world. Now tell me what you’re doing on this pleasant coast. Oh, I know you came to see me—partly. I’m grateful. But—for example—you’re not staying with me. Where are you staying?”
“At Mentone. With some old friends of ours.”
“Ah, and who may they be?” he asked, as he scraped his chin.
“Lady Dundrannan—as she now is—and her husband.”
He stopped shaving for a moment and turned round to me, one side of his face scraped clean, the other still covered with lathered soap. “Oh, are they here? At Mentone?”
“They’ve got a villa there—Villa San Carlo. We live in great state.”
“I won’t ask you to forsake them then, and share my quarters. I take an interest in that household; in fact, I feel partly responsible for it. I hope it’s a success?” He grinned at me, as he sponged and then toweled his face.
“A very brilliant success,” I assured him with a laugh.