"Come down to the Hotel," said Schuabe; "we can't possibly say anything here, every room is full."
They walked out of the club together, two figures of noticeable distinction, very obviously belonging to the ruling classes of England. The millionaire's pale and beautiful face was worn and lined.
"Schuabe seems a bit done up," one man in the hall said to another as the two friends passed through.
"Heat, I suppose," answered his companion. "Handsome chap, though; doesn't seem to care for anything worth having, only books and politics and that. Wish I'd his money."
"So do I. But give me Bob Llwellyn of these two. Thoroughly decent sort he is. Invented two new omelettes and a white soup. Forgets all about his thing-um-bobs—old Egyptian or something—they knighted him for directly he leaves the Museum."
"That's the sort," answered a third man who had joined them. "I don't object to a Johnny having a brain, and knowing a devil of a lot, if he'll only jolly well keep it to himself. Bob does that. I'm going up-stairs to have a turn at poker. You fellows coming?"
Schuabe and Llwellyn walked to the Cecil, no great distance, saying little by the way, and presently they were in the millionaire's great room, with its spacious view over the river.
The place was beautifully cool and full of flowers. A great block of ice rose from a copper bowl placed on a pedestal. The carpet had been covered with light matting of rice straw, brought from Rawal-pindi. All the windows leading to the balcony were wide open, and the balcony was covered with striped awning, underneath which the electric lights glowed on the leaves of Japanese palms, seeming as if they had been cunningly lacquered a metallic green colour, and on low chairs of white bleached rushes.
The two men sat down in the centre of the room on light chairs, with a small Turkish table and cool drinks between them.
"You've had all my letters, my last from Jaffa?" asked Sir Robert.