Sir Edgar was as much interested as he was mystified. He had come here to talk about manuscripts shut up in certain mouldering monasteries in Spain, but he had almost forgotten them in the turn the conversation had taken. He was genuinely interested in aviation and all its problems. He asked few questions, and his comments were almost entirely limited to the single exclamation, “Oh!” But this, from his lips, could mean a great many things; indifference, sharp interrogation, sympathetic interest, the nervousness of a modest man on hearing disclosures of a delicately personal nature. McGregor, before the others had finished dessert, drew a big cigar from his pocket and lit it at one of the table candles, as the horridest thing he could think of to do.
When they left the dining-room, St. Peter, who had scarcely spoken during dinner, took Sir Edgar’s arm and said to his wife: “If you will excuse us, my dear, we have some technical matters to discuss.” Leading his guest into the library, he shut the door.
Marsellus looked distinctly disappointed. He stood gazing wistfully after them, like a little boy told to go to bed. Louie’s eyes were vividly blue, like hot sapphires, but the rest of his face had little colour—he was a rather mackerel-tinted man. Only his eyes, and his quick, impetuous movements, gave out the zest for life with which he was always bubbling. There was nothing Semitic about his countenance except his nose—that took the lead. It was not at all an unpleasing feature, but it grew out of his face with masterful strength, well-rooted, like a vigorous oak-tree growing out of a hillside.
Mrs. St. Peter, always concerned for Louie, asked him to come and look at the new rug in her bedroom. This revived him; he took her arm, and they went upstairs together.
McGregor was left with the two sisters. “Outland, outlandish!” he muttered, while he fumbled about for an ashtray. Rosamond pretended