O'Shea sat on one wooden chair, with his stockinged feet crossed upon another, and his legs forming a bridge between. He was smoking, and in the lamplight his smooth, queer face looked like a brown apple that had begun to shrivel—just begun, for O'Shea was not old, and only a little wrinkled.
His wife came often into the room, and stood looking with interest at Caius. She was a fair woman, with a broad tranquil face and much light hair that was brushed smoothly.
Caius talked of the weather, for the snow was falling. Then, after awhile:
"By the way, O'Shea, who is Madame Le Maître?"
The other had not spoken for a long time; now he took his clay pipe out of his mouth, and answered promptly:
"An angel from heaven."
"Ah, yes; that, of course."
Caius stroked his moustache with the action habitual to drawing-room gallantry; then, instead of persisting, he formed his question a little differently:
"Who is Mr. Le Maître?"
"Sea-captain," said O'Shea.