He said a few words to his man.

"That will be all right. Do come upstairs."

"You are sure I am not in the way?"

"I hope you will not find my friend in the way; that's all. He's an odd
fellow at the best of times, and to-night he's got an attack of what he
calls the blacks--his form of blues. But he's very talented. Carey is his
name--Rupert Carey. You don't happen to know him?"

"No. If I may say so, your room is charming."

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/."