"I'll escort you," he said hospitably, "in case you meet anyone on the stairs. In your present get-up," he added with his oily, guttural laugh, "it might be awkward."
"Thank you," the other assented coolly, and, gathering up the dirty old military coat, he strode to the door. Naniescu was already there, holding it open for him.
"You will stay and have lunch with M. de Kervoisin and me, I hope," he said.
"I think not, thank you," the other replied.
"Ah! You are going to Hódmezö, perhaps—or to Kis-Imre?"
And Number Ten replied, with his habitual curtness:
"That is my affair."
De Kervoisin, who still sat smoking, chuckled at this. A scene such as this was part of a philosopher's enjoyment. Naniescu threw him a look, and shrugged his shoulders. De Kervoisin could almost hear him reiterating his stock phrase: "Ils sont impayables, ces Anglais!"
After that the two men went out of the room and de Kervoisin remained, sitting and smoking, with a thin smile on his colourless lips—the smile of a philosopher who sees the humour of a situation which to a less keen mind would only appear obscure and topsy-turvy, and after a while he murmured softly to himself:
"They certainly are remarkable, these English!"