Don replaced the drawing in the official envelope, smiling happily. "Old Chauvin is not exactly chatty," he remarked; "but he knows."
"I should say that he was a man of very extraordinary talent," said Thessaly, "even if I were unacquainted with his work. His choice of a companion alone marks him as no ordinary mortal."
Don laughed outright, fitting the envelope into his pocket again. "The lady is a Parisienne," he replied, "and very entertaining company."
"Parisiennes make delightful companions for any man," declared Thessaly, "and good wives for one who is fond of adventure. She is studying you with keen interest, Mario."
"She probably regards me as an embodiment of mediaeval turpitude. People persist in confusing novelists with their creations."
"Quite so. Yet because de Quincey was an opium-fiend, Poe a drunkard and Oscar Wilde a pervert, it does not follow that every clever writer is unfit for decent society. Even if he were, his popularity would not suffer. Few things help a man's public reputation so much as his private vices. Don't you think you could cultivate hashish, Mario? Sherlock Holmes' weakness for cocaine has endeared him to the hearts of two generations."
"I shall endeavour to dispense with it, Thessaly. Excepting a liking for honey which almost amounts to a passion, my private life is exemplary."
"Honey? Most peculiar. Don't let Bassett know or he will paragraph the fact. Honey to my way of thinking is a much overrated commodity which survives merely because of its biblical reputation and its poetic life-history. It is only one's imagination which lends to it the fragrance of flowers. Personally I prefer treacle. Is Chauvin's attachment to the French lady of a Platonic nature, Captain Courtier?"
"I cannot say. He is quite capable of marrying her."