John presumed he meant a cigarette, and took one. The donor extended an elegantly ringed hand to light his own. There was an excessive length of cuff. John's eye moved along the arm, and noted the carefully knotted tie. The clothes were ultra-fashionable, the cut of the waist being much exaggerated. The trousers had a razor-edge crease and the patent boots, narrow and pointed, were topped by brown canvas spats. But despite the elegance there was something too pronounced in everything. The cloth was just too light in colour, too loud in check, the cameo ring too large, the pearl pin too pearly to be genuine. Even the hair was curled until it suggested a wig rather than a natural covering, and the skin had a curious poreless texture. But all these might have passed unnoticed by a less critical eye than John's, fresh to impressions after the plain severity of schooldays, had not the voice, and accent deliberately assumed, been so truly remarkable. It was a high-pitched voice, that rather sang than spoke. He turned from time to time to his companion, to whom, to John's amazement, he alluded as "my dear"--John wondering if that was the fashionable pet name in London. The friend was of similar type, but he talked less and giggled more. The teeth were profusely stopped with gold, and while they talked, he extracted a piece of washleather from his yellow waistcoat pocket and polished his nails. He was the younger by about two years. "Mrs. Perdie didn't introduce us," said the elder--"my card." John took the piece of pasteboard and read it. In Roman printed type it ran "Reginald de Courtrai. Greenroom Club, W.C." "You are French?" asked John. "By descent--my grandfather was a Courtrai de Courtrai." "Oh--I'm afraid I haven't a card yet--my name's Dean." "Have you come to business?" "No--I have not long left Sedley." The companion also held out a card. John accepted it and read, "Vernon Wellington, Greenroom Club, W.C." "I bet Reggie at dinner you were a public school boy," said the donor. "Good old public schools we always say! Glad you've come. We are trying to put some tone into this house. Lord, it needs it, look at this!" He waved his hand derisively towards a red-blue-and-gold china shepherdess on the mantelpiece. "Fine place, Sedley," commented Mr. de Courtrai, puffing out smoke, one leg crossed in the arm chair. "Eton,--Harrow,--Sedley--I think I should have chosen Sedley had I not been educated on the continent. There's a fine tone about Sedley, what do you say, old dear?" The old dear agreed. "My people insisted on me going to a private school. Thought me too delicate. Always regretted it." He adjusted his tie carefully, glanced at himself in the mirror and smoothed his hair with a thin white hand. "You're new to London I suppose?" "Yes--I arrived to-day--but I shall like it." De Courtrai blew more smoke into the air. "You must get some cards--really, my dear."