“No, I didn’t,” he replied bruskly.  “You walked very slowly.”

“I feel tired to-day.”

“I thought you were never tired.”

“Every woman is tired sometimes.”

They began to ascend the staircase.  There was no lift.

“Are you going out to-night?” she heard him say behind her.

“No.  I shall go to bed early.”

“I’ll stay till then.”

“You know you can’t stay very late here.”

She heard him laugh.

“When you’ve just said you are going to bed early!”

She said nothing more till they reached the flat.  He followed her in and put his hat down.

“Will you have tea?”

“No, thanks; nothing.”

“Go into the drawing-room.  I’ll come in a moment.”

She left him and went into her bedroom.

He waited for her in the drawing-room.  At first he sat down.  The room was full of the scent of flowers, and he remembered the strong flowery scent which had greeted him when he visited the villa at Buyukderer for the first time.  How long ago that seemed—­aeons ago!  A few minutes passed, registered by the ticking of a little clock of exquisite bronze work on the mantelpiece.  She did not come.  He felt restless.  He always felt restless in Constantinople.  Now he got up and walked about the room, turning sharply from time to time, pausing when he turned, then resuming his walk.  Once, as he turned, he found himself exactly opposite to a mirror.  He stared into it and saw a man still young, but lined, with sunken eyes, a mouth drooping and bitter, a head on which the dark hair was no longer thick and springy.  His hair had retreated from the temples, and this fact had changed his appearance, had lessened his good looks, and at the same time had given to his face an odd suggestion of added intellectuality which was at war with the plain stamp of dissipation imprinted upon it.  Even in repose his face was almost horribly expressive.

As he stared into the glass he thought: 

“If I cut off my mustache I should look like a tragic actor who was a thorough bad lot.”

He turned away, frowning, and resumed his walk.  Presently he stood still and looked about the room.  He was getting impatient.  Irritability crept through him.  He almost hated Mrs. Clarke for keeping him waiting so long.

“Why the devil doesn’t she come?” he thought.

He stood trying to control his nervous anger, clenching his muscular hands, and looking from one piece of furniture to another, from one ornament to another ornament, with quickly shifting eyes.

His attention was attracted by something unusual in the room which he had not noticed till now.  On a writing-table of ebony near one of the windows he saw a large photograph in a curious frame of ruddy arbutus wood.  He had never before seen a photograph in any room lived in by Mrs. Clarke, and he had heard her say that photographs killed a room, and might easily kill, too, with their staring impotence, any affection one felt for the friends they represented.  Whose photograph could this be which triumphed over such a dislike?  He walked to the table, bent down and saw a standing boy in flannels, bare-headed, with thick, disordered hair and bare arms, holding in his large hands a cricket bat.  It was Jimmy, and his eyes looked straight into Dion’s.