Caracal stood before him.
Phil had not heard him come in. Caracal entered without knocking, as the concierge in his hurry had forgotten to close the door. The critic looked mockingly at Phil, like those devils who, in German legends, start up from a hole in the floor and offer you some crooked bargain in exchange for your soul. He greeted Phil with an affectation of politeness.
“How are you, cher ami?”
Caracal turned the glitter of his monocle on the Indian costume.
“Very, very curious—very amusing—very American! From last night’s ball, doubtless?”
For once there was nothing to say, and Caracal was right. It was really very American.
Occupied with his paper, Phil had forgotten to change his costume. He rose, excused himself briefly, and asked after Caracal’s health.
“Thanks, cher ami, I’m very well; allow me to admire you!”
“Wait a bit,” thought Phil to himself. “I’ll give you something to admire!”
But Caracal, with his squirrel-like activity, was already inspecting the studio and the pictures which were turned with their faces to the wall.