“Quite. Mr. Eddie is the proprietor of the well-known group of American hotels justly celebrated for their great height and poisonous cuisine; while Sir Horace Tipton alike as sportsman, globe-trotter, and soap manufacturer, is characteristically British. Of General Sir Francis Payne I need only say that his home services during the war did incalculable harm to our prestige throughout the Empire.”
He spoke with all the bitterness of a man who has made a failure of life. Agapoulos was quite restored to good humour.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, brushing his moustache and rattling his keys; “sportsmen, eh?”
Major Grantham dropped into the carven chair upon which the Greek had draped the leopard skin. Momentarily the window-dresser leapt into life as Agapoulos beheld one of his cunning effects destroyed, but he forced a smile when Grantham, shrugging his shoulders, replied:
“If they are fools enough to play—the usual 5 per cent, on the bank's takings.”
He paused, glancing at some ash upon the tip of his cigarette. Agapoulos swiftly produced an ashtray and received the ash on it in the manner of a churchwarden collecting half a crown from a pew-holder.
“I think,” continued Grantham indifferently, “that it will be the dances. Two of them are over fifty.”
“Ah!” said Agapoulos thoughtfully; “not, of course, the ordinary programme?”
Major Grantham looked up at him with lazy insolence.
“Why ask?” he inquired. “Does Lucullus crave for sausages? Do philosophers play marbles?”