“Of course,” we said.
“My own particular make,” Mr. Fall told us. “Instead of shaking them I stir them with a shagreen shoe-horn steeped in Chartreuse.”
“Perfect it is,” I assured him.
With the cocktails were caviare sandwiches.
“They go together very well,” said George Tarlyon. When they had gone, we dined.
Somewhere near us, but not in the room, sang a ukelele: near enough to be enjoyed, far enough not to distract, a gentle noise, a mezzotint noise, unrecognisable and remote.
And then in the fulness of time, the table was cleared, and there was coffee.
“You will like the brandy,” said Mr. Fall, as Tarlyon hesitated on the butler’s question. We liked the brandy very much.
“Leave it,” said Mr. Fall; and the butler left us.
“It’s like this,” he began; and he put both elbows on the table, and in one hand he waved a cigar and with the other he caressed his chin. Seriously he glanced from one to the other of us; he was a man with a courteous eye.