M. Agapoulos bowed extravagantly.  As he laid his plump hand upon his breast the diamond ring sparkled in a way most opulent and impressive.

“I greet you, Major Grantham,” he said.  “Behold”—­he waved his hand glitteringly—­“all is prepared.”

“Oh, yes,” murmured the other, glancing around without interest; “good.  You are beginning to get straight in your new quarters.”

Agapoulos extended the prosperous cigarette-case, and Major Grantham took and lighted a superior cigarette.

“How many in the party?” inquired the Greek smilingly.

“Three and myself.”

A shadow of a frown appeared upon the face of Agapoulos.

“Only three,” he muttered.

Major Grantham laughed.

“You should know me by this time, Agapoulos,” he said.  “The party is small but exclusive, you understand?”

He spoke wearily, as a tired man speaks of distasteful work which he must do.  There was contempt in his voice; contempt of Agapoulos, and contempt of himself.

“Ah!” cried the Greek, brightening; “do I know any of them?”

“Probably.  General Sir Francis Payne, Mr. Eddie, and Sir Horace Tipton.”

“An Anglo-American party, eh?”

“Quite.  Mr. Eddie is the proprietor of the well-known group of American hotels justly celebrated for their great height and poisonous cuisine; while Sir Horace Tipton alike as sportsman, globe-trotter, and soap manufacturer, is characteristically British.  Of General Sir Francis Payne I need only say that his home services during the war did incalculable harm to our prestige throughout the Empire.”

He spoke with all the bitterness of a man who has made a failure of life.  Agapoulos was quite restored to good humour.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, brushing his moustache and rattling his keys; “sportsmen, eh?”

Major Grantham dropped into the carven chair upon which the Greek had draped the leopard skin.  Momentarily the window-dresser leapt into life as Agapoulos beheld one of his cunning effects destroyed, but he forced a smile when Grantham, shrugging his shoulders, replied: 

“If they are fools enough to play—­the usual 5 per cent, on the bank’s takings.”

He paused, glancing at some ash upon the tip of his cigarette.  Agapoulos swiftly produced an ashtray and received the ash on it in the manner of a churchwarden collecting half a crown from a pew-holder.

“I think,” continued Grantham indifferently, “that it will be the dances.  Two of them are over fifty.”

“Ah!” said Agapoulos thoughtfully; “not, of course, the ordinary programme?”

Major Grantham looked up at him with lazy insolence.

“Why ask?” he inquired.  “Does Lucullus crave for sausages?  Do philosophers play marbles?”

He laughed again, noting the rather blank look of Agapoulos.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” he added.  “I mean to say that these men have been everywhere and done everything.  They have drunk wine sweet and sour and have swallowed the dregs.  I am bringing them.  It is enough.”