s is due to us" tone about the saying.

Shelton hunted for the name of Baltimore: "Charles Penguin, fifth Baron
Baltimore. Issue: Alice, b. 184-, m. 186-Algernon Dennant, Esq., of
Holm Oaks, Cross Eaton, Oxfordshire." He put down the Peerage and took
up the 'Landed Gentry': "Dennant, Algernon Cuffe, eldest son of the late
Algernon Cuffe Dennant, Esq., J. P., and Irene, 2nd daur. of the Honble.
Philip and Lady Lillian March Mallow; ed. Eton and Ch. Ch., Oxford, J. P.
for Oxfordshire. Residence, Holm Oaks," etc., etc. Dropping the 'Landed
Gentry', he took up a volume of the 'Arabian Nights', which some member
had left reposing on the book-rest of his chair, but instead of reading
he kept looking round the room. In almost every seat, reading or
snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estimation, might have married
Penguins. For the first time it struck him with what majestic
leisureliness they turned the pages of their books, trifled with their
teacups, or lightly snored. Yet no two were alike--a tall man-with dark
moustache, thick hair, and red, smooth cheeks; another, bald, with
stooping shoulders; a tremendous old buck, with a grey, pointed beard and
large white waistcoat; a clean-shaven dapper man past middle age, whose
face was like a bird's; a long, sallow, misanthrope; and a sanguine
creature fast asleep. Asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fat or thin,
hairy or bald, the insulation of their red or pale faces was complete.
They were all the creatures of good form. Staring at them or reading the
Arabian Nights Shelton spent the time before dinner. He had not been
long seated in the dining-room when a distant connection strolled up and
took the next table.

"Ah, Shelton! Back? Somebody told me you were goin' round the world."
He scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. "Clear soup! . . . Read
Jellaby's speech? Amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. Best
man in the House, he really is."

Shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been in the
habit of admiring Jellaby, but now he wondered why. The red and shaven
face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollen by good
humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixed introspectively
on the successful process of his eating.

"Success!" thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened--"success is what we
admire in Jellaby. We all want success . . . . Yes," he admitted, "a
successful beast."

"Oh!" said