CHAPTER VIIIT
HE tastes of Alexis Triona were not such as to lead him into extravagant living on the fruits of his literary success. To quality of food he was indifferent; wine he neither understood nor cared for; in the use of other forms of alcohol he was abstemious; unlike most men bred in Russia he smoked moderately, preferring the cigarettes he rolled himself from Virginia tobacco to the more expensive Turkish or Egyptian brands. His attire was simple. He would rather walk than be driven; and he regarded his back-bedroom at the top of the Vanloo Hotel as a luxurious habitation.
He had broken away from the easeful life at Medlow because, as he explained to Blaise Olifant, it frightened him.
“I’m up against nothing here,” said he.
“You’re up against your novel,” replied Olifant. “A
