The Countess shook her head.
"It's too bad of you, Henry," she expostulated. "You've been
trying to talk politics with him. You know that the poor man was
only longing for forty-eight hours during which he could forget
that he was Prime Minister of England."
"Precisely, my dear," Lord Maltenby agreed. "I can assure you
that I have not transgressed in any way. A remark escaped me
referring to the impossibility of providing beaters, nowadays, and
to the fact that out of my seven keepers, five are fighting. I
consider Mr. Stenson's comment was most improper, coming from one
to whom the destinies of this country are confided."
"What did he say?" the Countess asked meekly.
"Something about wondering whether any man would be allowed to
have seven keepers after the war," her husband replied, with an
angry light in his eyes. "If a man like Stenson is going to
encourage these socialistic ideas. I beg your pardon--the
Bishop, my dear."
The remaining guests drifted in within the next few moments,--the
Bishop, Julian's godfather, a curious blend of the fashionable and
the devout, the anchorite and the man of the people; Lord and Lady
Shervinton, elderly connections of the nondescript variety; Mr.
Hannaway Wells, reserved yet, urbane, a wonderful type of the
supreme success of mediocrity; a couple of young soldiers,
light-hearted and out for a good time, of whom Julian took charge;
an Oxford don, who had once been Lord Maltenby's tutor; and last
of all the homely, very pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady,
Princess Torski, followed by her niece.
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