“Quite, m’sieur,” said the barber, applying another. * * * * * Pleased with the incident, Gav tipped the fellow with characteristic _bravura_, and commenced his daily _emplettes_, as he did not hesitate to call them. That morning saw him in all the most exclusive shops in Town. Perfume he bought in Victoria Street and jewels in the busy Strand; the choice of some new hats kept him for a while in Holborn, but soon he was browsing among the bookshops of Villiers Street. At Owen’s (lest he decide upon Afric adventures) he ordered tropical silks, and (against his wooing the icy mountains of Greenland) he chose marvellous furs at Moss Bros. Extenuate at long last with so much purchasing, he refreshed himself with a light luncheon at one of his clubs, the Times Book, and then taxied to his favourite Turkish Bath, situated, like his barber, in Jermyn Street. And here, in the equatorial mists of this sumptuous haunt, chance was to decide for him where and how the vacation was to be spent. For while reclining in the innermost _sudatorium_, as with a flash of his scholarly and sophisticated wit, he called it, he began, naturally enough, to fashion and recite aloud a poem inspired by his extraordinary Oriental surroundings. Full of the mysterious fascination of the immemorial East, the words fell true and rounded from his lips, like far-off bells sounding in intricate cadence. _“How honey-sweet thy waters, O Khara-kharoum, how long_ _And lingering my broken years_ _That drain this cup of exile tears_ _Far from thy cool delights, Khara-kharoum,_ _In Youmadong!”_ He paused at that plaintive drop in the rhythm of this first _ghazel_, when suddenly a flute-like voice whispered through the steam. “Omar reincarnate!” he heard in tones of passionate admiration. Gav was silent. “But let that voice resume,” said the delighted interruptor. And just then the veiling vapour lifted a little, and Gaveston was able to introduce himself to his hitherto invisible auditor. “I’m Gaveston ffoulis, of Wallace.” “And I,” said the other, “am Vivian Cosmo, St. Mary’s.” Gaveston was thrilled. “Is that the face that launched a thousand boats,” he quoted. And the other made response with an answering thrill. “And burnt the hopeless town of Ilium.” It was an introduction, Gav felt, worthy of brother poets, and the friendship thus romantically born of vapour and song was not slow to mature. That same evening Lord Vivian Cosmo took him to dinner in the George Augustus Sala room at Kettner’s. “Here,” he said, “linger the last enchantments of the yellow ages.” Gaveston relished to the full the fascination of the famous peer. “Take an olive,” murmured Vivian, putting away his tiny gold-mounted lip-salve, “and tell me how our Alma Mater is standing the ravages of this twentieth century.”