popular legend concerning her that even now, despite the first fearful
shock of disappointment, Edward Henry could not call her by her name
without self-consciously stumbling over it, without a curious thrill.
And further, he was revising his judgment of her, as well as lowering
her age slightly. On coming into the room she had doubtless been
almost as startled as himself, and her constrained muteness had been
probably due to a guilty feeling in the matter of passing too open
remarks to a friend about a perfect stranger's manner of eating
artichokes. The which supposition flattered him. (By the way, he
wished she had brought the young friend who had shared her amusement
over his artichokes.) With regard to the other two men, he was quite
ready to believe that Carlo Trent was the world's greatest dramatic
poet, and to admit the exceeding talent of Mr. Marrier as a theatrical
manager.... In fact, unmistakable celebrities, one and all! He himself
was a celebrity. A certain quality in the attitude of each of his
guests showed clearly that they considered him a celebrity, and not
only a celebrity but a card--Bryany must have been talking--and the
conviction of this rendered him happy. His magnificent hunger
rendered him still happier. And the reflection that Brindley owed him
half-a-crown put a top on his bliss!

"I like your dressing-gown, Mr. Machin," said Carlo Trent, suddenly,
after his first spoonful of soup.

"Then I needn't apologize for it!" Edward Henry replied.

"It is the dressing-gown of my dreams," Carlo Trent went on.

"Well," said Edward Henry, "as we're on the subject, I like your
shirt-front."

Carlo Trent was wearing a soft shirt. The other three shirts were
all rigidly starched. Hitherto Edward Henry had imagined that a
fashionable evening shirt should be, before aught else, bullet-proof.
He now appreciated the distinction of a frilled and gently flowing
breast-plate, especially when a broad purple eyeglass ribbon wandered
across it. Rose Euclid gazed in modest transport at Carlo's chest.

"The colour," Carlo proceeded, ignoring Edward Henry's compliment,
"the colour is inspiring. So is the texture. I have a woman's delight
in textures. I could certainly produce better hexameters in such a
dressing-gown."

Although Edward Henry, owing to an unfortunate hiatus in his
education, did not know what a hexameter might be, he was artist
enough to comprehend the effect of attire on creative work, for he h