Musingly he lit a cigarette.
Through the open window a bee droned in on the blue air of evening and closing his eyes he fell to considering whether the bee of one country would understand the remarks of that of another. The effect of the soil of a nation, had it consequences upon its Flora? Were plants influenced at their roots? People sometimes spoke (and especially ladies) of the language of flowers ... the pollen therefore of an English rose would probably vary, not inconsiderably, from that of a French, and a bee born and bred at home (at Intriguer for instance) would be at a loss to understand (it clearly followed) the conversation of one born and bred, here, abroad. A bee’s idiom varied then, as did man’s! And he wondered, this being proved the case, where the best bees’ accents were generally acquired....
Opening his eyes, he perceived his former school chum, Lionel Limpness—Lord Tiredstock’s third (and perhaps most gifted) son, who was an honorary attaché at the Embassy, standing over him, his spare figure already arrayed in an evening suit.
“Sorry to hear you’re off colour, Old Dear!” he exclaimed, sinking down upon the couch beside his friend.
“I’m only a little shaken, Lionel...: have a cigarette.”
“And so you’re off to Chedorlahomor, Old Darling?” Lord Tiredstock’s third son said.
“I suppose so ...” the only son of Lord Intriguer replied.
“Well, I wish I was going too!”
“It would be charming, Lionel, of course to have you: but they might appoint you Vice-Consul at Sodom, or something?”
“Why Vice? Besides...! There’s no consulate there yet,” Lord Tiredstock’s third son said, examining the objects upon the portable altar, draped in prelatial purple of his friend.