“Yes, I confess I was. I wanted to pull the thing off. I made up my mind to get him acquitted.”
As he said it, the determined set of his mouth was old beyond his years and reminded Image very powerfully of his father. Then Gilbert smiled and clapped Image on the back, and the impression of egoistic ruthlessness was dissipated. When Gilbert Currey smiled he had considerable charm. Women would have let him know this if he had found time to court them.
Richards’ voice was heard at the door. “Mr. Iverson.”
“Hallo, old chap, flushed with victory, eh? Lord! what a lot of swotting you must have done over that case. Your knowledge of Eastern poisons knocked me silly. You’re a nut, you are.”
No one could have mistaken Jack Iverson for anything else but a Service man. As a matter of fact, he was in the Blues, and exceptionally good-looking, with that rare distinction in a man—a wonderful clear, healthy skin. His eyes a curious jadelike green with the bluish clear whites that one usually sees only in the eyes of a small child, Jack Iverson was one of the handsomest and richest young men that lounged about Mayfair.
Image did not know Jack Iverson, but he knew the next guest, an old friend, Dr. Fritz Neeburg, and he had heard of the last arrival, Gilbert’s particular friend and college chum, Colin Paton.
The impression Paton made on the casual observer was that of a well-groomed reserved man of a very English type, and one of the best. There was nothing at all arresting in his appearance; he had regular features, smooth hair, well-cared-for hands, and a general air of wellbeing. He was three years older than Gilbert, though they had been at Oxford together, but he had been delicate in his early manhood, and had spent several years in desultory travel. Paton’s movements were all quietly deliberate; they might have belonged to a man of fifty equally well as to a man of thirty. He did not give the impression of forceful energy, as did his friend. Quite unlike in character and tastes, they were yet excellent friends, and though Gilbert would have been at a loss to describe or analyse Paton—he had no interest in psychology, apart from its bearing on his legal work—Paton had long ago realized the possibilities and the limitations of his host.
They sat down to dinner in a pleasant intimate circle of yellow light. Richards’ wife had a passion for flowers—she would spend hours standing in front of the beautiful florists’ displays in the West End, when she took her constitutionals—so Gilbert’s rooms and table were always tastefully decorated. This evening, heavy-headed, fragrant jonquils, rather sick and drooping with their own sweetness, nodded from some exquisite Venetian glass, while bunched violets in silver bowls added to the spring-like effect. Image was quick to notice the flowers.
“The English flowers! You must have spent ten years in the tropics to appreciate them. One gets so satiated with gorgeousness and overpowering perfume, just as one gets tired of the burning sun and the eternal blue sky. But the English flowers one never tires of. There is such a wonderful simplicity and purity about them. They refresh and cleanse one. In the East there are flowers that are positively wicked, one almost starts back from their viciousness. But the English flowers are perfect.
“I saw your lights burning at two o’clock this morning,” observed Neeburg; “were you celebrating your victory, Gilbert?”