The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient.
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