discuss.” Leading his guest into the library, he shut the
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 not to hear him, but the dusky red on her cheeks crept a little farther toward her ears.
“Remember, we are leaving early, Scott,” said Kathleen. “You have to finish your editorial tonight.”
“Surely you don’t make him work at night, too?” Rosamond asked. “Doesn’t he have to rest his brain sometimes? Humour is always better if it’s spontaneous.”
“Oh, that’s the trouble with me,” Scott assured her. “Unless I keep my nose to the grindstone, I’m too damned spontaneous and tell the truth, and the public won’t stand for it. It’s not an editorial I have to finish, it’s