"I know. 'Beware of pickpockets. No smoking.' They quote her in the lifts on the Tube. But then I'm not a pickpocket, and you are smoking. Besides, your picture knows mine very well. They've seen quite a lot of each other lately. "Yes, but--" "And then you know my picture a little, and I know yours by heart." "You're quick to learn." "Perhaps. But I do. I know every eyelash, long as they are. I believe I could say them. But then I was always good at poetry." This with a bow. She rose and made the daintiest curtsey. "Would have been better," she said, resuming her seat in the depths of 'Luxury.' "But the skirts of to-day don't help." "And my bow would have been deeper: but the braces I bought yesterday afternoon--" "That'll do," she said, laughing. "Seriously, where is Mr. Larel, and why are you here?" "George is probably scouring Battersea for a child he saw there last autumn with ears such as he has never beheld outside Khartoum. I am here, as you are, in the interest of Posterity." "Did he tell you Thursday, too?" "Certainly. I remember it perfectly. We were standing in St. James's Square, near where I get my shirts. Nobody recognized us. George had a cigar in his mouth, and his exact words were, 'Wottabow Hursday?' I had some of the wood pavement in my eye, and my exact words were therefore excusable." "And now he's forgotten us both." "On the contrary, he's probably remembered." "And is consequently afraid to come himself?" "Exactly. Well, we couldn't very well overlook the insult, could we?" "It might be wiped out in paint." I shook my head. Then: "French polish might do," I said. "But then, he hasn't got any of that. However. To tell you the truth, I don't know that I'm very angry with him. I shall pretend to be, of course. But, now that from admiring the imitation, I find myself face to face with the real thing, I--" "And the rest. I like these cigarettes rather." "Dear Sir or Madam," said I, "what is it about our cigarettes that so appeals to your palate?" She laughed. "I don't know anything about cigarettes, really, but these seem so fresh." "My dear," said I, "you could have said nothing more calculated to warm the cockles of my heart. You are a connoisseurs (very good indeed). These cigarettes are actually straight from the stable, I mean the Ottoman Empire. I shall send you a box this afternoon by Carter Paterson." "You're very kind. But tell me, why is their paper brown?" "Berry says it's swank. But then he would. As a matter of fact, it's maize. I like it myself: it's so nourishing. Besides, it goes so well with a blue suit. Talking of which, with a flowered dress and dark hair, it's absolutely it." She stretched out a shapely hand, reflectively settling her frock. "White ones would match my gloves, though." "They would. And the whites of your eggs--I mean eyes. I know. Oh, and your soft throat. But--" "He said you were awful."