Beppo resumed his pantomime. He took Mario's strong hand and rubbed it sharply across his chest.
"Ecco! ... 'friction'?" His anxious eyes watched his master's amazed face.
"Io," said McTaggart stoutly—"always ... sempre." He waved them away. "Grazia—ma ... addio!"
At this very obvious hint the two servants slowly withdrew.
McTaggart shot from his bed and turned the key in the door. Then his stifled mirth exploded and he laughed until he cried.
"That was a narrow shave," he said, staring into the huge bath. "My uncle had some funny habits—muslin night-shirts and massage! Horrible, this wet sheet..." He dipped a finger in and shivered. "I'll swear there's ice in it——" he said. "Happy thought!" He took the foot-tub and poured in the boiling water.
His bath over, he dressed quickly, then rang the bell for the man, after a vain hunt for razors among the many toilette articles.
But Mario was prepared for this. He shaved McTaggart skilfully, produced powder, produced perfumes—which Peter hurriedly declined.
Then Beppo reappeared, with a message from the Marchesa. She would receive her new nephew as soon as it suited him.
He followed the "maestro di casa" to the further wing of the palace and was shown into a small boudoir hung with a striped primrose silk. The room was dainty, filled with flowers and photographs, scattered about on the modern French furniture above the delicate Aubusson carpet. On an easel under a palm, stood a large portrait in pastel of a dapper little gentleman, with a slim waist and padded shoulders. The face, old but still handsome, bore lines of dissipation around the keen dark eyes. He had grizzled hair, grey eyebrows, and a startlingly black moustache.