She turned, and there in the doorway stood Don. Less than three months had elapsed since his last leave and Flamby was intensely surprised to see him. She came forward with outstretched hands. "Oh, Don," she cried. "How lovely! However did you manage it?"
An exquisite blush stained her cheeks, and her eyes lighted up happily. Glad surprises made her blush, and she was very sincerely glad as well as surprised to see Don. She had not even heard him approach. She had been wondering what Devonshire was like, for Paul was in Devonshire. Now as Don took both her hands and smiled in the old joyous way she thought that he looked ill, almost cadaverous, in spite of the tan which clung to his skin.
"Craft, Flamby, guile and the subtlety of the serpent. The best men get the worst leave."
"I don't believe it," said Flamby, watching him in sudden anxiety. "You have been ill. Oh, don't think you can pretend to me; I can see you have."
"Bad," remarked Lorenzo in cordial agreement. He had finished the sugar. "Damn bad."
"What!" cried Don—"have you got old Crozier's Lorenzo down here? Hullo! let us see how you have 'percepted' him." He crossed to the easel, surveying Flamby's painting critically. "Does Hammett still talk about 'percepting the subject' and 'emerging the high-lights' and 'profunding the shadows'?"
"He does. You're mean not to tell me."
"What do you want me to tell you, Flamby?—that the drawing is magnificent and the painting brilliant except for the treatment of the bill, which is too brilliant." He turned and met her reproachful gaze. "Perhaps I am mean, Flamby, to frighten you by not replying to your question, but really I am quite fit. I have had a touch of trench-fever or something, not enough to result in being sent home to hospital, and have now got a few days' sick-leave to pull round after a course of weak gruel."
"That's very unusual, isn't it?"
"What, Flamby?"