“Ah, how nice!” murmured Arthur; “all about Doric columns and so on, I suppose. Do tell me some day. Maud, we shall be dreadfully late for lunch.”
“Yes, dear, I know we shall,” said Maud.
“Well, then, wouldn’t it really be as well to leave the Parthenon alone, just for the present? You can see the Parthenon any day.”
“Well, you can have lunch any day,” said Maud; “and you do have it every day.”
Arthur Wrexham made a resigned little sound, partaking of the nature of a sigh, and followed them.
They were lunching with Tom at his hotel, and when they went out on to the balcony afterwards to drink the thick sweet Turkish coffee, they found Manvers sitting in the sun, feeding on his own thoughts. The thoughts chiefly ran on the subject of the possibility of representing lace—real thin lace, and not great fluffy bunches of it—in terra-cotta, and it really seemed as if it might be done. La dame qui s’amuse must have lace, all round her parasol and down the front of her dress.
He looked doubtfully at his cigar, after shaking hands with Maud. The class qui m’ennuie were not so tolerant. Maud caught the glance.
“Not on my account, please,” said she. “I don’t mind it in the least.”
“Well, on my account, then,” said Tom. “He smokes curly Italian weeds, Miss Wrexham. They smell of goat’s cheese.”
“My dear fellow,” said Manvers, “you are in the Havannah stage with all your tastes.”