Lost trumpet

136 THE LOST TRUMPET
avoiding with narrowness the slaughter of a vendor
who attempted to sell us packets of indecent post¬
cards, an umbrella, and a box of Turkish delight. I
leant back and looked at my watch, and then at
Pelagueya.
“To a physician. You have heard me talk of him
—Dr. Adrian, the gynaecologist.”
The armies with torches came hurrying in the
deeps of her sweet eyes again. “A gynaecologist ?
My dear, you don’t think I’m a suitable patient ?
. . . Oh, Anton Kyrilovitch !”
I made hasty disclaimer of that. “It is not his
gynaecology but his philosophy that is of interest.
If we can find him at home I will have him expound
it to you.”
He was at home. He was in his garden, deserted
of the sun now and over-brooded by the thought of
evening. He sat at that little table where I had first
made the acquaintance of Huebsch and Marrot, and
as the Greek servant showed us down the path he
looked up irritatedly.
“Didn’t I tell you I couldn’t see a soul to-night,
Trikoupi ? . . . Oh, it’s you, Saloney.” He caught
sight of Pelagueya by my side and stood up, with a
regretful frown towards the manuscripts that strewed
the little table.
“Dr. Adrian : The Princess Pelagueya Bourrin.”
My little Adrian’s eyes lighted. “I am very pleased
to see you at last, Princess.” He flapped dust urgently
from the two chairs where my employers had once
sat. Pelagueya nodded and sat down and took off