AS I CAME into the room, he put his paper down and got to his feet. He was in evening clothes. “Good evening, Mr. Marlow.” “Good evening, General.” I did not feel particularly cordial, and could not have sounded so, for he coughed apologetically. “I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I was particularly anxious to see you.” “By all means.” I made an effort to sound enthusiastic. “May I offer you a drink?” “Thank you, no. Perhaps one of your English cigarettes … thank you. Shall we sit down? I shall not detain you long.” “I beg your pardon. Yes, please sit down.” “Thank you.” He sat down and glanced round the room distastefully. “I should find this a very depressing atmosphere, Mr. Marlow. This Utrecht green, these faded reminders of an effete imperialism. Buonaparte always seems to me a slightly pathetic figure: a parvenu with a talent for making fools of wiser men: a man with a taste for the grandiose and the soul of an accountant. Don’t you agree with me?”
