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Beerbohm, Max, Sir, 1872-1956

"A Christmas Garland"


He would much rather not have seen this solitary applicant. The two
eyes fixed on his made him feel very uncomfortable. And yet, for fear
of seeming to be outfaced, he did not like to look away.
The subdued clangour of the gong, sounded for breakfast, gave him an
excuse for turning suddenly round and watching the door of the room.
A few moments later there came to him a faint odour of Harris tweed,
followed immediately by the short, somewhat stout figure of his
master--a man whose mild, fresh, pink, round face seemed to find
salvation, as it were, at the last moment, in a neatly-pointed auburn
beard.
Adrian Berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed
eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness
which the dining-room had at this hour. Pathetically a creature of
habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that
went to symbolise for him the time and the place. Here were the
immediate scents of dry toast, of China tea of napery fresh from
the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled
eggs give out through their unbroken shells. And as a permanent base
to these there was the scent of much-polished Chippendale, and of
bees'-waxed parquet, and of Persian rugs.


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