“Take an olive,” murmured Vivian, putting away his tiny gold-mounted lip-salve, “and tell me how our Alma Mater is standing the ravages of this twentieth century.”
Gaveston took one, and told him. He had by now gathered that his new friend had already gone down some not inconsiderable time. Lord Vivian hardly looked so youthful as he had in that uncertain vaporous light underneath Jermyn Street, but still—the bortsch was excellent, and the skilful host had ordered a cuve of champagne, Veuve Amiot of course.
“Leave your langouste,” he went on, “and describe your friends.”
Gaveston left it, and described them. The escaloppes d’agneau gave place to some épitaphes d’andouilles which justified their name.
“Taste your sorbet,” said Vivian. They were on terms of Christian names by now. “And give me your thoughts on women.”
Gaveston tasted it, and gave them. Seldom, he thought, had anyone found him quite so interesting.
“Have another liqueur, Gavvy, and let me take you to Paris.”
Gavvy had it, and let him.
“We ought to have flown across,” said Lord Vivian a trifle petulantly, as he closed the door of their state-room on the Calais packet.