"Did he wear whiskers?"
"Yes; long ones."
"A soft black hat, a polo collar and a ready-for-use black tie?"
"I believe he did."
"I am glad you did not let him in."
Through the narrow-panelled windows of the charming morning-room Don could see the old sundial. He remembered that in the summer the miniature rock-garden endued a mantle of simple flowers, and that sweet scents were borne into the room by every passing breeze. A great Victorian painter had lived in this house, which now was destined to figure again in history as the home of the greater Paul Mario. He glanced around the cosy room, in which there were many bowls and vases holding tulips, those chalices of tears beloved of Hafiz, and he suppressed a little sigh.
"May I light a pipe before I go, Yvonne?" he asked. "I am one of those depraved beings who promenade the streets smoking huge briars, to the delight of Continental comic artists."
"I know you are. But you are not going to promenade the streets until you have had lunch."
"Really, Yvonne, thanks all the same, but I must go. Honestly, I have an appointment."
Yvonne smiled in his face and her violet eyes held a query.