I was the Flail of the Lord

           LordJohnRoxtonandIturneddownVigoStreettogetherandthroughthedingyportalsofthefamousaristocraticrookery.Attheendofalongdrabpassagemynewacquaintancepushedopenadoorandturnedonanelectricswitch.Anumberoflampsshiningthroughtintedshadesbathedthewholegreatroombeforeusinaruddyradiance.Standinginthedoorwayandglancingroundme,Ihadageneralimpressionofextraordinarycomfortandelegancecombinedwithanatmosphereofmasculinevirility.Everywherethereweremingledtheluxuryofthewealthymanoftasteandthecarelessuntidinessofthebachelor.RichfursandstrangeiridescentmatsfromsomeOrientalbazaarwerescattereduponthefloor.Picturesandprintswhichevenmyunpractisedeyescouldrecognizeasbeingofgreatpriceandrarityhungthickuponthewalls.Sketchesofboxers,ofballet-girls,andofracehorsesalternatedwithasensuousFragonard,amartialGirardet,andadreamyTurner.ButamidthesevariedornamentstherewerescatteredthetrophieswhichbroughtbackstronglytomyrecollectionthefactthatLordJohnRoxtonwasoneofthegreatall-roundsportsmenandathletesofhisday.Adark-blueoarcrossedwithacherry-pinkoneabovehismantel-piecespokeoftheoldOxonianandLeanderman,whilethefoilsandboxing-glovesaboveandbelowthemwerethetoolsofamanwhohadwonsupremacywitheach.Likeadadoroundtheroomwasthejuttinglineofsplendidheavygame-heads,thebestoftheirsortfromeveryquarteroftheworld,withtherarewhiterhinocerosoftheLadoEnclavedroopingitssuperciliouslipabovethemall.

           InthecenteroftherichredcarpetwasablackandgoldLouisQuinzetable,alovelyantique,nowsacrilegiouslydesecratedwithmarksofglassesandthescarsofcigar-stumps.Onitstoodasilvertrayofsmokablesandaburnishedspirit-stand,fromwhichandanadjacentsiphonmysilenthostproceededtochargetwohighglasses.