In the garish light
of day he looked a trifle less imposing than he had on New Year's eve in
the firelight. His long white hair hung straight and dry about his face;
baggy wrinkles sagged under his eyes and under his chin. The shoulders
that once proudly carried Mark Antony's shining armor now supported a
faded velvet breakfast jacket that showed its original color only in
patches. But even in the intimacy of the breakfast hour Papa Claude
preserved his air of distinction, the gracious condescension of a
temporary sojourner in an environment from which he expected at any
moment to take flight.
When Cass had gone to work and the girls were busy cleaning up the
breakfast dishes, he linked his arm in Quin's and drew him into the
living-room.
"I have never allowed myself to submit to the tyranny of time!" he said.
"The wine of living should be tasted slowly. Pull up a chair, my boy; I
want to talk to you. You don't happen to have a cigar about you, do you?"
"Yes, sir. Here are two. Take 'em both. I got to cut out smoking; it
makes me cough."
Mr. Martel, protesting and accepting at the same time, sank into his
large chair and bade Quin pull up a rocker.
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