Then he called a waiter, and said to him, in a hectoring voice:
“Bring me a Kummel and make haste about it.”
He lit a cigarette that was almost as big as a cigar, and turned again to Lady Holme.
“I’ve been in the Sahara gazelle shooting,” he continued.
He spoke in a rather thick, lumbering voice and very loud, probably because he was married to a deaf woman.
“Just come back,” he added.
“Oh!” said Lady Holme.
She was sitting perfectly upright on her chair, and noticed that her companion’s eyes travelled calmly and critically over her figure with an unveiled deliberation that was exceptionally brazen even in a modern London man. Lady Holme did not mind it. Indeed, she rather liked it. She knew at once, by that look, the type of man with whom she had to deal. In Leo Ulford there was something of Lord Holme, as in Pimpernel Schley there was perhaps a touch of herself. Having finished his stare, Leo Ulford continued:
“Jolly out there. No rot. Do as you like and no one to bother you. Gazelle are awfully shy beasts though.”
“They must have suited you,” said Lady Holme, very gravely.