They were on the first floor now, in a chamber rather barely furnished and hung with blue-grey linen, against which were fastened several old Italian pictures in black frames. On the floor were some Eastern rugs in which faded and originally pale colours mingled. A log fire was burning on an open hearth, at right angles to which stood an immense sofa with a square back. This sofa was covered with dull blue stuff. Opposite to it was a large and low armchair, also covered in blue. A Steinway grand piano stood out in the middle of the room. It was open and there were no ornaments or photographs upon it. Its shining dark case reflected the flames which sprang up from the logs. Several dwarf bookcases of black wood were filled with volumes, some in exquisite bindings, some paper covered. On the top of the bookcases stood four dragon china vases filled with carnations of various colours. Electric lights burned just under the ceiling, but they were hidden from sight. In an angle of the wall, on a black ebony pedestal, stood an extremely beautiful marble statuette of a nude girl holding a fan. Under this, on a plaque, was written, “_Une Danseuse de Tunisie_.” Sir Donald went up to it, and stood before it for two or three minutes in silence. “I see indeed you do care for beauty,” he said at length. “But--forgive me--that fan makes that statuette wicked.” “Yes, but a thousand times more charming. Carey said just the same thing when he saw it. I wonder I wonder what Lady Holme would say.” They sat down on the sofa by the wood fire. “Carey could probably tell us!” Pierce added. “Oh, then your friend knows Lady Holme?” “He did once. I believe he isn’t allowed to now. Ah, here is Carey!” A quick step was audible on the stairs, the door was opened, and a broad, middle-sized young man, with red hair, a huge red moustache and fierce red-brown eyes, entered swiftly with an air of ruthless determination. “I came, but I shall be devilish bad company to-night,” he said at once, looking at Sir Donald. “We’ll cheer you up. Let me introduce you to Sir Donald Ulford--Mr. Rupert Carey.” Carey shook Sir Donald by the hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said abruptly. “I’ve carried your Persian poems round the world with me. They lay in my trunk cheek by jowl with God-forsaken, glorious old Omar.” A dusky red flush appeared in Sir Donald’s hollow cheeks. “Really,” he said, with obvious embarrassment, “I--they were a great failure. ‘Obviously the poems of a man likely to be successful in dealing with finance,’ as _The Times_ said in reviewing them.” “Well, in the course of your career you’ve done some good things for England financially, haven’t you?--not very publicly, perhaps, but as a minister abroad.” “Yes. To come forward as a poet was certainly a mistake.” “Any fool could see the faults in your book. True Persia all the same though. I saw all the faults and read ‘em twenty times.”