He gazed thoughtfully at his glass.
“A strange flaw in an otherwise fine character. Thank heavens the symptom is not common!”
| XII | The Man Who Could Not Get Drunk |
“Yes; she’s a beautiful woman. There’s no doubt about that. What did you say her name was?”
“I haven’t mentioned her name,” I returned. “But there’s no secret about it. She is Lady Sylvia Clavering.”
“Ah! Sylvia. Of course, I remember now.”
He drained his glass of brandy and sat back in his chair, while his eyes followed one of the most beautiful women in London as she threaded her way through the tables towards the entrance of the restaurant. An obsequious head-waiter bent almost double as she passed; her exit, as usual, befitted one of the most be-photographed women of Society. And it was not until the doors had swung to behind her and her escort that the man I had been dining with spoke again.