Then he smiled, for he saw advancing to him across the room another victim of the weather.

This was a small, thin man, with a finely-shaped dark head and the most perfectly-fitting clothes.

He had been deep in a review, but at the sight of the wearied giant in the corner he had forgotten his interest in the "Entomology of the Riviera." He looked something of the artist or the man of letters, but in truth he had no taint of Bohemianism about him, being a very respectable person and a rising politician.

His name was Arthur Mordaunt, but because it was the fashion at the time for a certain class of people to address each other in monosyllables, his friends invariably knew him as "John." He dropped into a chair and regarded his companion with half-closed eyes.
"Well, John.

Dished, eh?
Most infernal heat I ever endured! I can't stand it, you know.