Mr Duchemin had walked swiftly to his chair which Parry, as swiftly walking behind him, drew out. His master slipped into it with a graceful, sideways motion. He shook his head at grey Miss Fox who had moved a hand towards an ivory urn–tap. There was a glass of water beside his plate, and round it his long, very white fingers closed. He stole a quick glance at Macmaster, and then looked at him steadily with laughingly glittering eyes. He said: ‘Good morning, doctor,’ and then, drowning Macmaster’s quiet protest: ‘Yes! Yes! The stethoscope meticulously packed into the top–hat and shining hat left in the hall.’
The prize–fighter, in tight box–cloth leggings, tight whipcord breeches, and a short tight jacket that buttoned up at the collar to his chin—the exact stud–groom of a man of property
