his neighbour, "I forgot. You're in the other camp?"

"Not particularly. Where did you get that idea?"

His neighbour looked round negligently.

"Oh," said he, "I somehow thought so"; and Shelton almost heard him
adding, "There's something not quite sound about you."

"Why do you admire Jellaby?" he asked.

"Knows his own mind," replied his neighbour; "it 's more than the others
do . . . . This whitebait is n't fit for cats! Clever fellow,
Jellaby! No nonsense about him! Have you ever heard him speak? Awful
good sport to watch him sittin' on the Opposition. A poor lot they are!"
and he laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a small
minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass.

"Minorities are always depressing," said Shelton dryly.

"Eh? what?"

"I mean," said Shelton, "it's irritating to look at people who have n't a
chance of success--fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and all
that."

His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively.

"Er--yes, quite," said he; "don't you take mint sauce? It's the best
part of lamb, I always think."

The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every
man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to regain
its influence on Shelton. How many times had he not sat there, carefully
nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was used to, a
paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who was not a
bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole over him.
Happy! That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall.

"Look at poor little Bing puffin' about," said his neighbour, pointing to
a weazened, hunchy waiter. "His asthma's awf'ly bad; you can hear him
wheezin' from the street."

He seemed amused.

"There 's no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose?" said Shelton.

His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.

"Here, take this away; it's overdone;" said he. "Bring me some lamb."

Shelton pushed his table back.

"Good-night," he said; "the Stilton's excellent!"

His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his
plate.

In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and
took his weight. "Eleven stone!" he thought; "gone up!" and, clipping a
cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel.

After half an hour he dropped the book. There seemed something rather
fatuous about this story,