supposed not to trouble itself about such subjects, changes
into all sorts of unexpected things continually."

_Dombey and Son._

I

At four o'clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, October 11th, in this
year 1899 war between England and South Africa was declared.

At that same hour on that same afternoon an afternoon party was given by
Lady Adela Beaminster at 104 Portland Place, and all the more important
believers in the Beaminster religion were present.

The Long Drawing-room had the happy property of extending to accommodate
its company and now, shadowy as its corners always were, it yielded the
impression still of size and space, its mirrors reflecting its dark
green walls that receded from the figures that thronged it.

The Duchess (now Ross's portrait of her) hung above the Adams fireplace
and a little globe of light shone, on this dark October day, up into
that sharp and wizened face and lit those bending fingers and flung
forward the dull green jade and the dark black dress.

Many people were present. The Duke, Lord John, Lord Richard of
course--also, of course, Lady Carloes, the Massiters, Lord Crewner,
Monty Carfax, Brun, Maurice Garden the novelist, and his wife--also a
fine collection of ladies and gentlemen, important in politics, in the
graver camps of society--also a certain number who belonged by party to
those whom Brun had once called the Aristocrats, the Chichesters, the
Medleys, the Darrants. Old Lady Darrant was there looking like a cook,
and Fred Chichester and his kind and freckled features, and Mrs. Medley
who had married Judge Medley's only son.

Of the Democrats--of the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaks, not one to be
seen.

The men and women who stood about in the room seemed strangely, oddly,
of one family. No human being present was without his or her
self-consciousness, but it was a self-consciousness that had about it
nothing vulgar or strident. No voice in that room was raised, the very
laughter implied, "Here we are, in the very Court of our Temple; we may
then relax a little. For a time, at any rate, we know who we all are."

This security was implied on every hand. It was: "Young Rorke's going
out--he's the son of Alice Branches--he married old Truddits' daughter,"
or--

"No, I don't know him personally, but Dick Barnett has seen him once or
twice and says he's a very decent feller," or--

"Well, I should go carefully, if I were you. Neither the Massiters no