For the two Warings were truly
"as like as two peas"; a photograph of one might almost have done
duty for the photograph of the other.
The other occupant of the room, who leaned carelessly against the
mantelshelf, was taller and older; though he, too, was handsome,
but with the somewhat cynical and unprepossessing handsomeness of
a man of the world. His forehead was high; his lips were thin; his
nose inclined toward the Roman pattern; his black moustache was
carefully curled and twisted at the extremities. Moreover, he was
musical; for he held in one hand the bow of a violin, having just
laid down the instrument itself on the sofa after a plaintive duet
with Guy Waring.
"Seen this evening's paper, by the way, Guy?" he asked, after
a pause, in a voice that was all honeyed charm and seductiveness.
"I brought the St. James's Gazette for you, but forgot to give you
it; I was so full of this new piece of mine. Been an accident this
morning, I see, on the Great Southern line. Somewhere down Cyril's
way, too; he's painting near Chetwood; wonder whether he could
possibly, by any chance, have been in it?"
He drew the paper carelessly from his pocket as he spoke, and handed
it with a graceful air of inborn courtesy to his younger companion.
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