CHAPTER X
THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN
IN the large, open fireplaces of the Sheridan Club dining-room, logs of pine and cedar wood gave out a regular and well-diffused warmth. Outside, the snow was still falling, and beyond the long windows, covered with their crimson curtains, the yellow air was full of soft and silent movement.
The extreme comfort of the lofty, panelled dining-room was accentuated a hundred-fold, to those entering it, by the chilly experience of the streets.
The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades, the gleams falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a thousand points of dancing light.
At one of the tables, laid for two people. Sir Robert Llwellyn was sitting. He was in evening dress, and his massive face was closely scrutinising a printed list propped up against a wine-glass before him. His expression was interested and intent. By his side was a sheet of the club note-paper, and from time to time he jotted down something upon it with a slender gold pencil.
The great archaeologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with much thought and care.
Crême d'asperge à la Reine
in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another — almost like an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied.
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