The lady smiled sweetly. “You are Dr. Quixtus, the anthropologist?”
“I am interested in the subject,” said Quixtus.
“More than that. I have read your book; The Household Arts of the Neolithic Age.”
“An indiscretion of youth,” said Quixtus.
“Oh, please don’t tell me it’s all wrong,” cried Mrs. Fontaine, in alarm. “I’m always quoting it. It forms part of my little stock-in-trade of learning.”
“Oh, no. It’s not exactly incorrect,” said Quixtus, with a smile, pleased that so pretty a lady should count among his disciples, “but it’s superficial. So much has been discovered since I wrote it.”
“But it’s a standard work, all the same. I happened to see an account of the Anthropological Congress in the paper this morning, in which you are referred to as the éminent anthropologue anglais and the author of my book. I was so pleased. I should have been more so had I known I was to meet you this afternoon. Have you turned anthropologist too, Mr. Huckaby?”
Huckaby explained that he was taking advantage of the Congress to make holiday in the company of his distinguished friend. That was the first afternoon the Congress had allowed him leisure, and they had devoted it to contemplation of the acres of fresh paint in the Grand Palais. They had come home exhausted.
“Home? Then you’re staying in the hotel?”
“Yes,” said Huckaby. “And you?”