Gaveston took care only to meet people of whose peculiarness and uniquity he could be proud, and so he always felt a properly nepotal affection for Sir Wilkinson ffoulis, K.V.O. A diplomat, now retired, he had been _en poste_ at Reijkavik, Quito, Adis Ababa, and Cayenne. “And after that,” the veteran would say, casting up his eyes to the Angelica Kauffmann ceiling of the St. James’s Club, “I was fifteen months _en disponibilité_, pressin’ my claims to a chargéship in Pesth or Janeiro. They offered me Albania. I preferred the Albany.” Wilkinson had his share of the dry ffoulis wit. “Milord receives,” said Hekla, the Icelandic valet. He showed Gaveston into a room decorated exclusively with signed photographs of the various royalties whom Sir Wilkinson had been able to serve in those directions for which he had an all but unique talent, and which formed a very frequent subject for his reflection and reminiscence. “Glad you’ve come, m’ boy,” he said heartily. “I think you’ll be comfortable here while your mother’s away, and, gad! you’ll brighten up the old place for me. I feel so _diablement disoccupato_, y’ know,” he went on meditatively, “but I’ll enjoy helpin’ you to find your feet in town. Don’t suppose you’ve seen much of the green-rooms yet, eh?” Gaveston made a deprecating gesture. “But look here: there’s a little Spanish gal singin’ at the Col. just now … remember once the King of the Belgians, the old ’un … the Ludwigstrasse tried to get hold of her then … ended as a Principessa … but old Leopold sent me that photograph all the same.” And the old fellow chuckled. Gaveston knew all his uncle’s stories, and only listened at intervals: they were more interesting like that. “Thanks immensely, Uncle Wilkie,” he replied. “Awfully thoughtful of you. But I want to think things over first.” “Young devil…! Want to drive your own wagon, eh?” “Shan’t hitch it to a Star, though,” flashed Gaveston. “He! he! Good lad! Gad! you’re a ffoulis all right. _Quel garçon!_” and with a laugh that he had learned from the accounts of those who had known the Marquess of Steyne, the old rake donned his beaver-hat and started on his quotidian round of the more exclusive clubs. But as he went out of the door he threw Gaveston a latch-key. “Catch, m’ boy!” he called to him. CHAPTER IV CIRCEAN And then, in glowing crowded processional, there came for Gaveston a marvellous cavalcade of days and nights in the great metropolis of Empire. Through the cheerful, childlike bustle of Yuletide, through the chilled, sober, resolute days of New Year, and on to the gay bachelor party which Uncle Wilkinson gave (at Verrey’s, of course) to some of his old colleagues on Twelfth Night, the great book of London opened before him, ateem with strange riddles and alembications.