His companion smiled deprecatingly.

“I have adopted so many of your western customs,” he said apologetically.  “To this lunching or dining in public, however, I shall never accustom myself.”

Immelan laughed good-naturedly.  The conversation of the two men on their way from the Park had been without significance, and some part of his earlier nervousness seemed to be leaving him.

“We all have our foibles,” he admitted.  “One of mine is to have a pretty woman opposite me when I lunch or dine, music somewhere in the distance, a little sentiment, a little promise, perhaps.”

“It is not artistic,” Prince Shan pronounced calmly.  “It is not when the wine mounts to the head, and the sense of feeding fills the body, that men speak best of the things that lie near their hearts.  Still, we will let that pass.  Each of us is made differently.  There is another thing, Immelan, which I have to say to you.”

They passed into the reception room, with its shining floor, its marvellous rugs, its silken hangings, and its great vases of flowers.  Prince Shan led his companion into a recess, where the light failed to penetrate so completely as into the rest of the apartment.  A wide settee, piled with cushions, protruded from the wall in semicircular shape.  In front of it was a round ebony table, upon which stood a great yellow bowl filled with lilies.  Prince Shan gave an order to one of the servants who had followed them into the room and threw himself at full length among the cushions, his head resting upon his hand, his face turned towards his guest.

“They will bring you the aperitif of which you are so fond,” he said, “also cigarettes.  Mine, I know, are too strong for you.”

“They taste too much of opium,” Immelan remarked.

Prince Shan’s eyes grew dreamy as he gazed through a little cloud of odorous smoke.

“There is opium in them,” he admitted.  “Believe me, they are very wonderful, but I agree with you that they are not for the ordinary person.”

The soft-footed butler presented a silver tray, upon which reposed a glassful of amber liquid.  Immelan took it, sipped it appreciatively, and lit a cigarette.

“Your man, Prince,” he acknowledged, “mixes his vermouths wonderfully.”

“I am glad that what he does meets with your approval,” was the courteous reply.  “He came to me from one of your royal palaces.  I simply told him that I wished my guests to have of the best.”

“Yet you never touch this sort of drink yourself,” Immelan observed curiously.

The Prince shook his head.

“Sometimes I take wine,” he said.  “That is generally at night.  A few evenings ago, for instance,” he went on, with a reminiscent smile, “I drank Chateau Yquem, smoked Egyptian cigarettes, ate some muscatel grapes, and read ‘Pippa Passes.’  That was one of my banquets.”

“As a matter of fact,” Immelan remarked thoughtfully, “you are far more western in thought than in habit.  The temperance of the East is in your blood.”