The Sphinx and I had not met for quite a long time. We hadn’t dined together for--O I should think--four years; and it was strange to both of us to be sitting opposite to each other once more in the friendly glitter of a little dinner table--that glitter which is made up of skillfully mitigated electric light falling on various delicate objects of pleasure: the slim, fluted crystal of the wineglasses, the lustral linen, the tinkling ice in its silver jug, the moon-white roses, and the opals on the Sphinx’s long fingers. We were both a trifle conscious, and we looked at each other half inquiringly across the table.…
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