For, mind you, they were celebrities. He knew Seven Sachs was a celebrity because he had verily seen him act--and act very well--in his own play, and because his name in letters a foot high had dominated all the hoardings of the Five Towns. As for Rose Euclid, could there be a greater celebrity? Such was the strange power of the 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 artichoke.) With regard to the other two men, he was quite ready to believe that Carlo Trent was the world’s greatest 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 apologise 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 breastplate, especially when a broad purple eye-glass 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 had noticed that he himself could make more money in one necktie than in another, and he would instinctively take particular care in the morning choice of a cravat on days when he meditated a great coup.