Black, red, and gold--lustreless black of coke, lurid crimson of fresh
blood, bright glaring yellow of gold new-minted--were the predominant
notes in a colour scheme at once sombre and violent. The walls were
hung with scarlet tapestries whereon gold dragons crawled and fought
or strove to swallow dead black planets, while on every hand black
imps of Eblis writhed and struggled over golden screens, golden devils
mocked and mowed from panels of cinnabar, and horrific masks of
crimson lacquer, picked out with gold and black, leered and snarled
dumb menaces from darkened corners.
In such a room as this the mildest mannered man, steeping his soul in
the solace of mellow tobacco, might have been pardoned for dreaming
lustfully of battle, murder and sudden death, or for contemplating
with entire equanimity the tortured squirmings of some favourite enemy
upon the rack.
"Cosy little hole," P. Sybarite couldn't forbear to comment with a
shudder as he dropped into a chair in compliance with the woman's
gesture.
"I have my whims," she said. "How would you like a drink?"
"Not at all," he insisted hastily. "I've had all I need for the time
being."
"That's a mercy," she replied. "I don't much feel like waiting on you
myself, and the servants are all abed."
Offering cigarettes in a golden casket, she selected and lighted one
for herself.
"You have servants in the house, then?"
"Do I look like a woman who does her own housework?"
"You do not," he affirmed politely.
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