“I’ve got bad faults. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. It is as if my lips had been sealed about them. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. He had deliberately saved it for last. Listen to me, Thames. The word of a Chinaman; he had given it, so he must abide. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. It felt too good.
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