“An appointment.”

“Got your letter?”

I produced the envelope.

“Right!” He seemed to be a person of few words. Following him down the passage I was suddenly interrupted by a small woman, who stepped out from what proved to be the dining room door. She was a bright, vivacious, dark-eyed lady, more French than English in her type.

“One moment,” she said. “You can wait, Austin. Step in here, sir. May I ask if you have met my husband before?”

“No, madam, I have not had the honor.”

“Then I apologize to you in advance. I must tell you that he is a perfectly impossible person⁠—absolutely impossible. If you are forewarned you will be the more ready to make allowances.”

“It is most considerate of you, madam.”