The door is opened, and Paynter announces “Mr. Kenneth Malise.”  Malise enters.  He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which seem to have needles in their pupils.  His thick hair is rather untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.

Lady Dedmond.  How do you do?  My son and daughter-in-law are so very sorry.  They’ll be here directly.

     [Malise bows with a queer, curly smile.]

Sir Charles. [Shaking hands] How d’you do, sir?

Huntingdon.  We’ve met, I think.

     He gives Malise that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn
     the person bowed to of the sort of person he is.  MALISE’S eyes
     sparkle.

Lady Dedmond.  Clare will be so grieved.  One of those invitations

Malise.  On the spur of the moment.

Sir Charles.  You play Bridge, sir?

Malise.  Afraid not!

Sir Charles.  Don’t mean that?  Then we shall have to wait for ’em.

Lady Dedmond.  I forget, Mr. Malise—­you write, don’t you?

Malise.  Such is my weakness.

Lady Dedmond.  Delightful profession.

Sir Charles.  Doesn’t tie you!  What!

Malise.  Only by the head.

Sir Charles.  I’m always thinkin’ of writin’ my experiences.

Malise.  Indeed!

[There is the sound of a door banged.]

Sir Charles. [Hastily] You smoke, Mr. Malise?

Malise.  Too much.

Sir Charles.  Ah!  Must smoke when you think a lot.

Malise.  Or think when you smoke a lot.

Sir Charles. [Genially] Don’t know that I find that.

Lady Dedmond. [With her clear look at him] Charles!

The door is opened.  Clare Dedmond in a cream-coloured evening frock comes in from the hall, followed by George.  She is rather pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of voice and manner.

Lady Dedmond.  Well, my dear!

Sir Charles.  Ah!  George.  Good dinner?

George. [Giving his hand to Malise] How are you?  Clare!  Mr.
Malise!

Clare. [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp]
Yes, we met on the door-mat. [Pause.]

Sir Charles.  Deuce you did! [An awkward pause.]

Lady Dedmond. [Acidly] Mr. Malise doesn’t play Bridge, it appears. 
Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.