O’Hagan entered my rooms with the impressive dignity of a Richelieu; in the very distinction of the man there is something opulent. His refined insouciance surpasses anything of the kind one could imagine.
“Will you do me a trifling service, Raymond?”
“Consider it as done.”
He threw himself into the blue Chesterfield lounge with the native grace no lesser man could hope to imitate. His pose suggested that a rapier hung at his hip and must be taken into consideration. A plumed hat would have struck no discordant note but merely have harmonised with the purple-lined cloak. O’Hagan’s head one might surmise to be from a study by Van Dyck.
“I am running around to Ritzmann’s, the music-publishers, in Berners Street.”
Now, I noted that he carried a full portfolio.
“At last you have decided to enter the field? You do wisely.”
“I am acting on behalf of a friend—a lady.”
“Indeed. What part do I play?”
“Come along. I will explain.”