P. had motored over to Monte Carlo to hear a
concert, and that he wasn't expected back for an hour or more. As we
stopped in the entrance hall to get our hats I struck a match on the
sole of my shoe, intending to light a cigarette.
"By Jove! Don't do that, for Heaven's sake," said Craven, "or there'll
be a frightful row when J. P. comes in. He can't stand cigarette smoke,
and he's got a sense of smell as keen as a setter's."
We went into the garden and followed a narrow path which led down to the
waterside. We talked about J. P. As a matter of fact, J. P. was the
principal topic of conversation whenever two of his secretaries found
themselves together.
Craven, however, had only been with J. P. for a few weeks, having been
one of the batch sifted out of the six hundred who had answered the
Times advertisement. He was almost as much in the dark as I was in
regard to the real J. P. that existed somewhere behind the mask which
was always held out in front of every emotion, every thought, every
intention.
The life was difficult, he found, and extremely laborious. When it
suited his book J. P. could be one of the most fascinating and
entertaining of men, but when it didn't, well, he wasn't. The truth was
that you could never tell what he really thought at any moment; it made
you feel as though you were blind and not he; you found yourself groping
around all the time for a good lead and coming unexpectedly up against a
stone wall.
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