"Of course, Mr. Bry."

Carey's violent face expressed disgust in every line.

"One of the most finished of London types," he exclaimed. "No other city
supplies quite the same sort of man to take the colour out of things.
He's enormously clever, enormously abominable, and should have been
strangled at birth merely because of his feet. Why he's not Chinese I
can't conceive; why he dines out every night I can. He's a human
cruet-stand without the oil. He's so monstrously intelligent that he
knows what a beast he is, and doesn't mind. Not a bad set of people to
talk with, unless Lady Holme was in a temper and you were next to her, or
you were left stranded with Holme when the women went out of the
dining-room."

"You think Holme a poor talker?" asked Sir Donald.

"Precious poor. His brain is muscle-bound, I believe. Robin, you know I'm
miserable to-night you offer me nothing to drink."

"I beg your pardon. Help yourself. And, Sir Donald, what will you--?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Try one of those cigars."

Sir Donald took one and lit it quietly, looking at Carey, who seemed to
interest him a good deal.