“May I without impertinence compliment you on your colour-scheme?”
His olive cheek flushed like a girl’s. He had devoted an hour’s concentrated thought to it before he rose. How should he appear in the presence of the divinity? He had decided on grey flannels, grey shirt, purple socks and tie. He wondered whether she guessed the part she had played in his anxious selection. Remembering the splotch of grease, he said:
“I hadn’t much choice of clothes when you last saw me.”
She laughed. “Tell me all about Brantôme. How is my dear little friend Félise?”
He gave her discreet news. “And the incomparable Fortinbras?”
“You’ll doubtless soon be able to judge for yourself. He’s here.”
“In Cairo? You don’t say!”
Mingled with her expression of surprise was a little perplexity of the brow, as though, seeing the Fortinbras of the Petit Cornichon, she wondered what on earth she could do with him.
“He came with me,” said Martin.
“Is he staying in this hotel?”