The sunburned traveller would flush mahogany. “That’s all right for you to say. But I’m no chamois. But it was a great trip, just the same. I want to thank you.”

Then, for example, Florian’s clothes. He had adopted that careful looseness — that ease of fit — that skilful sloppiness — which is the last word in masculine sartorial smartness. In talking he dropped his final g’s and said “sportin’“ and “mountain climbin’“ and “shootin’.” From June until September he wore those Norfolk things with bow ties, and his shirt patterns were restrained to the point of austerity. A signet ring with a large scrolled monogram on the third finger of his right hand was his only ornament, and he had worn a wrist watch long before the