nday. Her style wants
broadening of course. But look at this."

Don dived into the capacious pocket of his trench-coat and brought forth
a large envelope marked "On His Majesty's Service. _Strictly
Confidential._" From the envelope he took a water-colour drawing
representing a pair of long-legged ungainly colts standing snuggled up
to their mother under a wild briar hedge. He handed the drawing to
Chauvin, and Chauvin, adjusting a pair of huge horn-rimmed spectacles
upon his nose, examined it critically. All three watched him in silence.
Presently he removed the spectacles and laid the drawing down on the
table. He held out his hand to Don.

"Bring her along early," he said. "Good night." He returned to the human
geranium.

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