e vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at him
curiously. He was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to his
apparent age. His features were good, his ears small, and his nose
delicately shaped. He had big teeth, but they were white and even. His
mouth was large, with heavy moist lips. He had the neck of a bullock. His
dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in such a
way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. The baldness
of his crown was vaguely like a tonsure. He had the look of a very
wicked, sensual priest. Margaret, stealing a glance at him as he ate,
on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an uncontrollable
dislike. He lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away, blushing as
though she had been taken in some indiscretion. These eyes were the most
curious thing about him. They were not large, but an exceedingly pale
blue, and they looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing.
At first Susie could not discover in what precisely their peculiarity
lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most persons converge
when they look at you, but Oliver Haddo's, naturally or by a habit he
had acquired for effect, remained parallel. It gave the impression that
he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. It was uncanny.
But another strange thing about him was the impossibility of telling
whether he was serious. There was a mockery in that queer glance, a
sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his
outrageous utterances. It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while
you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at
your expense.

His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members
got up and left. Warren reeled out with O'Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms
were no match for Haddo's bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with the
scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still under
Haddo's insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently. When
he was at the door, Haddo stopped him.

'You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson. Have
you ever hunted them on their native plains?'

'No, I haven't.'

Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with
incipient wrath.

'Then you have not seen the jackal, gnawing at a dead antelope, scamper
away in terror when the King of Beasts stalked down to mak