There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. John. It was as if he could smell it on her.
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