On Lesbia's right hand there was a portly personage of Jewish type, dark
to swarthiness, and somewhat oily, whose every word suggested bullion.
He and Mr. Smithson were evidently acquaintances of long standing, and
Mr. Smithson presented him to Lesbia, whereupon he joined in their
conversation now and then.
His talk was of the usual standard. He had seen everything worth seeing
in London and in Paris, between which cities he seemed to oscillate with
such frequency that he might be said to live in both places at once. He
had his stall at Covent Garden, and his stall at the Grand Opera. He was
a subscriber at the Theatre Francais. He had seen all the races at
Longchamps and Chantilly, as well as at Sandown and Ascot. But every now
and then he and Mr. Smithson drifted from the customary talk about
operas and races, pictures and French novels, to the wider world of
commerce and speculation, mines, waterworks, and foreign loans--and
Lesbia leant back in her chair, and fanned herself languidly, with
half-closed eyelids, while two or three courses went round, she giving
the little supercilious look at each entree offered to her, to be
observed on such occasions, as if the thing offered were particularly
nasty.
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