There were thirty men at table. Of various ages, of various nationalities, they yet harmonized perfectly with one another and with their surroundings. They were essentially men of the world. There was not one who did not wear his evening clothes with the ease of custom, and the persistent stream of conversation, now in one language, now in another, never rising above a courteous level, bore the stamp of world travel and cultured acquaintance with every phase of life.
Villiers sat at his host's right hand. From his position he could see straight down the rose-tinted dining room to the open window, beyond which the Mediterranean shimmered in peaceful moonlight. The table was scattered with red roses, and their perfume had grown heavy, almost overpowering, in the dead atmosphere. Villiers picked up One of the blossoms and.smelled it luxuriously.
“We do not grow such flowers in England,” he said lightly. “It is intoxicating. I can imagine myself committing any folly with this near me. Are these your special product?”
Corodo smiled.
“They have been specially procured in your honor,” he said, with a little bow that was not quite English in its courteous formality. “They are, as you suggest, rare. My young friend, here, is past master in the art of cultivating such specimens. It is to him your compliments are due.”
Villiers glanced across the table at his vis-à-vis. The white, passionless face smiled back at him, and for a moment Villiers hesitated, uncomfortably touched by the old, intangible recollection.
“Surely we have met before,” he said abruptly.
“I think not.” The smile had not changed, and yet an indescribable cynicism had been added to its persistency. “At least, I have not met you, Mr, Villiers. A passing resemblance, perhaps?”
“Possibly. Yes, I remember now. It was a man I met in England—a Frenchman. I am glad it is no more than a resemblance, for I can remember that he spoiled my evening.”
“Indeed! Might his unfortunate double know how?”
“Permit me to fill your glass”
Villiers made a gesture of protest, but his host persisted with kindly earnestness.
“You must try this. It is my very best as rare as the roses. I am anxious for your opinion. You English have a clever palate. Is it not excellent?”
Villiers sipped curiously at the fiery liquid. The bouquet was unusual—fragrant and yet touched with bitterness. It seemed to go straight to the senses, soothing, and yet paralyzing. For an instant the words, “you English,” had caught his attention, but now they slipped from him into oblivion.
“It is wonderful. It might have been brewed in a witch's kitchen—or did the vine grow in the same soil as the roses?”
“They were at least near neighbors.”
The white-faced man leaned across the table. “And my double?” he asked.
Villiers laughed at his pertinacity, and the sound startled him. It rang curiously loud in his own ears.
“We quarreled over a matter of opinion,” he said. “My Frenchman insisted that patriotism was a mere question of pounds, shillings, and pence. As an ill-paid English lieutenant, I felt I had a right to dispute the statement. As usual, neither convinced the other, and I, at least, was seriously irritated.”
“And with reason. And yet”—Corodo leaned back with an air of impartiality—“what is patriotism? Little more than vainglory, an egoist's belief in the greatness of his country because he was born in it. Can we not conceive greater things?”
“For my part—I can't.”
“You can't, for instance, conceive yourself changing your allegiance?”
“No.”
“Not even were you discarded and dishonored by your own race?”
Villiers shook his head. A challenging retort had risen to his lips, but his tongue felt strangely heavy, and a kind of indifference had come over him. Yet the question had been grave, almost ominous.
“No,” he said. “I can't—conceive an absurdity.”
Corodo smiled. At that moment a servant had entered and laid a sealed letter quietly at his master's elbow. Corodo glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket.
“A business letter,” he said lightly. “It will keep. I do not attend to business on a night like this.” He caught Villiers' involuntary glance, and the kindly amusement in his deep-set eyes brightened. “Ours is different, Mr. Villiers. If I may, I will keep you a little later. After my other guests are gone, we will go into matters finally to-night. In the meantime, may I propose a couple of toasts? In the first place, in honor of him whose birthday we celebrate to-night—my son!”
