“No, thank you!”
“But—why not?”
“I never take it at this time.”
“Well, I must have some. I have got a cold. This climate in winter—it is awful!”
He shook his broad shoulders and blinked rapidly several times, then suddenly opened his eyes very wide and yawned.
“Well now!” he said. “But please sit down.”
Sir Seymour sat down. Arabian stood with his back to the fire and his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. Sir Seymour noticed what a magnificently made man he was. He had certainly been endowed with physical gifts for the undoing of women. But his brown face, strikingly handsome though it undoubtedly was, had the hard stamp of vice on it. Long ago at a first glance Sir Seymour had seen that this man was a wrong ‘un, and now, as he looked at Arabian, he found himself wondering how anyone could fail to see that.
“Now I will tell you exactly,” Arabian said.
And he explained carefully and lucidly enough—though through occasional yawns—what had happened between Garstin and himself. He did not mention Miss Van Tuyn’s name. As he was getting towards the end of his narrative his servant came in with a tray on which were bottles and glasses. He said nothing and Arabian said nothing to him, but went on talking and did not appear to notice him. But directly he had gone Arabian poured out some whisky, added a little soda and drank it.
“There! That is how we did!” he said at last.