It was still raining, and
neither I nor the waiter could leave our Chinese-junk of an island until
the downpour ceased or we were rescued by a lifeboat or an umbrella.
"And this nephew of the Sultan," I began again between puffs, addressing
my remark to the match in my companion's hand, which was now burning
itself out at the extreme end of my cigar. "Is he a new admirer?"
"Quite new--only ten days or so, I think."
"And the one before--the old one--what does he think?" I asked this
question with one of those cold, hollow, heartless laughs, such as
croupiers are supposed to indulge in when they toss a five-franc piece
back to a poor devil who has just lost his last hundred Napoleons at
baccarat--I have never seen this done and have never heard the laugh,
but that is the way the storybooks put it--particularly the
blood-curdling part of the laugh.
"You mean Pierre Channet, the painter, Monsieur?"
I had, of course, never heard of Pierre Channet, the painter, in my
life, but I nodded as knowingly as if I had been on the most intimate
relations with him for years.
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