He got up and walked up and down.  His rooms, in a narrow square skirting Belgravia, were unchanged since the death of his father had made him a man of means.  Selected for their centrality, they were furnished in a very miscellaneous way.  They were not bare, but close inspection revealed that everything was damaged, more or less, and there was absolutely nothing that seemed to have an interest taken in it.  His goods were accidents, presents, or the haphazard acquisitions of a pressing need.  Nothing, of course, was frowsy, but everything was somewhat dusty, as if belonging to a man who never rebuked a servant.  Above all, there was nothing that indicated hobbies.

Three days later he had her answer to his letter: 

. . .  I don’t think I understand what you mean by “the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem to be”; one must be healthy to be perfect, must n’t one?  I don’t like unhealthy people.  I had to play on that wretched piano after reading your letter; it made me feel unhappy.  I’ve been having a splendid lot of tennis lately, got the back-handed lifting stroke at last—­hurrah! . . .

By the same post, too, came the following note in an autocratic writing: 

Dear bird [for this was Shelton’s college nickname],
My wife has gone down to her people, so I’m ‘en garcon’ for a few
days.  If you’ve nothing better to do, come and dine to-night at
seven, and go to the theatre.  It’s ages since I saw you. 
               Yours as ever,
                    B. M. Halidome.

Shelton had nothing better to do, for pleasant were his friend Halidome’s well-appointed dinners.  At seven, therefore, he went to Chester Square.  His friend was in his study, reading Matthew Arnold by the light of an electric lamp.  The walls of the room were hung with costly etchings, arranged with solid and unfailing taste; from the carving of the mantel-piece to the binding of the books, from the miraculously-coloured meerschaums to the chased fire-irons, everything displayed an unpretentious luxury, an order and a finish significant of life completely under rule of thumb.  Everything had been collected.  The collector rose as Shelton entered, a fine figure of a man, clean shaven,—­with dark hair, a Roman nose, good eyes, and the rather weighty dignity of attitude which comes from the assurance that one is in the right.

Taking Shelton by the lapel, he drew him into the radius of the lamp, where he examined him, smiling a slow smile.  “Glad to see you, old chap.  I rather like your beard,” he said with genial brusqueness; and nothing, perhaps, could better have summed up his faculty for forming independent judgments which Shelton found so admirable.  He made no apology for the smallness of the dinner, which, consisting of eight courses and three wines, served by a butler and one footman, smacked of the same perfection as the furniture; in fact, he never apologised for anything, except with a jovial brusqueness that was worse than the offence.  The suave and reasonable weight of his dislikes and his approvals stirred Shelton up to feel ironical and insignificant; but whether from a sense of the solid, humane, and healthy quality of his friend’s egoism, or merely from the fact that this friendship had been long in bottle, he did not resent his mixed sensations.