deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His manner
and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. He
talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was
no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who shared his fortunes
listened to his wisdom with an admiration that plainly flattered him.

Miss Boyd had described everyone to Arthur except young Raggles, who
painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and Clayson, the
American sculptor. Raggles stood for rank and fashion at the Chien
Noir. He was very smartly dressed in a horsey way, and he walked with
bowlegs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He alone
used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief distinction
was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and Warren, whose memory
for names was defective, could only recall him by that peculiarity. But
it was understood that he knew duchesses in fashionable streets, and
occasionally dined with them in solemn splendour.

Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant things.
With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked
exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a
Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian accent.

Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door
was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off his cloak with a
dramatic gesture.

'Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero upon a
convenient peg.'

He spoke execrable French, but there was a grandiloquence about his