looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing. At first Susie could not discover in what precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most persons converge when they look at you, but Oliver Haddo’s, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained parallel. It gave the impression that he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. It was quite uncanny. But another strange thing about him was the impossibility of telling whether he was serious. There was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances. It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense.
His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members got up and left. Warren reeled out with O’Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms were no match for Haddo’s bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with the scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still under Haddo’s insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently. When he was at the door Haddo stopped him.
“You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson. Have you ever hunted them on their native plains?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with incipient wrath.
“Then you have not seen the jackals, gnawing
