CHAPTER IV
A LUNCHEON PARTY
CONSTANTINE SCHUABE'S great room at the Hotel Cecil had been entirely refurnished and arranged for the winter months.
The fur of great Arctic beasts lay upon the heavy Teheran carpets, which had replaced the summer matting—furs of enormous value. The dark red curtains which hung by windows and over doors were worked with threads of dull gold.
All the chairs were more massive in material and upholstered warmly in soft leather; the logs in the fireplace crackled with white flame, amethyst in the glowing cavern beneath.
However the winter winds might sweep over the Thames below or the rain splash and welter on the Embankment, no sound or sign of the turmoil could reach or trouble the people who moved in the fragrant warmth and comfort of this room.
For his own part Schuabe never gave any attention to the mise-en-scène by which he was surrounded, here or elsewhere. The head of a famous Oxford Street firm was told to call with his artists and undermen; he was given to understand that the best that could be done was to be done, and the matter was left entirely to him.
In this there was nothing of the parvenu or of an ignorance of art, as far as Schuabe was concerned.
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