what he liked in the way of wine, he would always command a half-bottle of
the extra dry for himself, but would have it manipulated with such
discretion that not a guest could notice it. He paid lavishly and
willingly, convinced by hard experience that the best is inestimable, but
he felt too that the best was really quite cheap, for he knew that there
were imperfectly educated people in the world who thought nothing of paying
the price of a good meal for a mere engraving or a bit of china. Withal,
he never expected his guests truly to appreciate the marvels he offered
them. They could not, or very rarely. Their twittering ecstatic praise,
which was without understanding, sufficed for him, though sometimes he
would give gentle diffident instruction. This trait in him was very
attractive, proving the genuineness of his modesty.

The luncheon was partly to celebrate the return of various persons to
Paris, but chiefly in honour of Musa's concert. Musa could not be present,
for distinguished public performers do not show themselves on the day of an
appearance. Mr. Gilman had learnt this from Madame Piriac, whom he had
consulted as to the list of guests. It is to be said that he bore the
absence of Musa from his table with stoicism. For the rest, Madame Piriac
knew that he wanted no other men, and she had suggested none. She had
assumed that he desired Audrey, and had pointed out that Audrey could not
well be invited without Miss Ingate, who, sick of her old Moze, had
rejoined Audrey in the splendour of the Hotel du Danube. Mr. Gilman had
somehow mentioned Miss Thompkins, whereupon Madame Piriac had declared that
Miss Thompkins involved Miss Nickall, who after a complete recovery from
the broken arm had returned for a while to her studio. And then Mr. Gilman
had closed the list, saying that six was enough, and exactly the right
number.

"At what o'clock are you going for the drive?" asked Madame Piriac in her
improved, precise English. She looked equally at her self-styled uncle and
at Audrey.

"I ordered the car for three o'clock," answered Mr. Gilman. "It is not yet
quite three."

The table with its litter of ash-trays, empty cups, empty small glasses,
and ravaged sweets, and the half-deserted restaurant, and the polite
expectant weariness of the priests and acolytes, all showed that the hour
was in fact not quite three--an hour at which such interiors have
invariably the aspect of roses overblown and about to tumble