«Thank you, my lord.»
«Have you finished in the dining-room?»
«Not quite, my lord.»
«Well, come back when you have. I have many things to tell you. Hullo! who's that?»
The doorbell had rung sharply.
«Unless it's anybody interestin' I'm not at home.»
«Very good, my lord.»
Lord Peter's library was one of the most delightful bachelor rooms in London. Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces of the houris. In one corner stood a black baby grand, a wood fire leaped on a wide old-fashioned hearth, and the Sevres vases on the chimneypiece were filled with ruddy and gold chrysanthemums. To the eyes of the young man who was ushered in from the raw November fog it seemed not only rare and unattainable, but friendly and familiar, like a colourful and gilded paradise in a mediaeval painting.
«Mr. Parker, my lord.»
Lord Peter jumped up with genuine eagerness.