His father, or uncle, was Minister of Agriculture, or Commerce, or something, in his native land; and he himself was attached in some nominal capacity to the Brazilian Legation, in the Rue de Teheran, whence, on state occasions, he enjoyed the privilege of enveloping his meagre little person in a very gorgeous diplomatic uniform.  He was beardless, with vague features, timid, light-blue eyes, and a bluish, anaemic skin.  In manner he was nervous, tremulous, deprecatory—­perpetually bowing, wriggling, stepping back to let you pass, waving his hands, palms outward, as if to protest against giving you trouble.  And in speech—­upon my word, I don’t think I ever heard him compromise himself by any more dangerous assertion than that the weather was fine, or he wished you good-day.  For the most part he listened mutely, with a nickering, perfunctory smile.  From time to time, with an air of casting fear behind him and dashing into the imminent, deadly breach, he would hazard an ’Ah, oui,’ or a ‘Pas mal.’  For the rest, he played the piano prettily enough, wrote colourless, correct French verse, and was reputed to be an industrious if not a brilliant student—­what we called un serieux.

It was hard to believe that beautiful, sumptuous Nina Childe, with her wit, her humour, her imagination, loved this neutral little fellow; yet she made no secret of doing so.  We tried to frame a theory that would account for it.  ‘It’s the maternal instinct,’ suggested one.  ‘It’s her chivalry,’ said another; ’she’s the sort of woman who could never be very violently interested by a man of her own size.  She would need one she could look up to, or else one she could protect and pat on the head.’ ’"God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her,"’ quoted a third.  ’Perhaps Coco’—­we had nicknamed him Coco—­’has luminous qualities that we don’t dream of, to which he gives the rein when they’re a deux.’

Anyhow, if we were mortified that she should have preferred such a one to us, we were relieved to think that she hadn’t fallen into the clutches of a blackguard, as we had feared she would.  That Coco was a blackguard we never guessed.  We made the best of him, because we had to choose between doing that and seeing less of Nina:  in time, I am afraid—­such is the influence of habit—­we rather got to like him, as one gets to like any innocuous, customary thing.  And if we did not like the situation—­for none of us, whatever might have been our practice, shared Nina’s hereditary theories anent the sexual conventions—­we recognised that we couldn’t alter it, and we shrugged our shoulders resignedly, trusting it might be no worse.