.

"I tell the governor, when he 's glum, that I shall put up the shutters
and leave him. What's the good of mopin' and lookin' miserable? Are you
going to the Four-in-Hand Meet? We're making a party. Such fun; all the
smart people!"

The splendour of her shoulders, her frizzy hair (clearly not two hours
out of the barber's hands), might have made him doubtful; but the frank
shrewdness in her eyes, and her carefully clipped tone of voice, were
guarantees that she was part of the element at the table which was really
quite respectable. He had never realised before how "smart" she was, and
with an effort abandoned himself to a sort of gaiety that would have
killed a Frenchman.

And when she left him, he reflected upon the expression of her eyes when
they rested on a lady opposite, who was a true bird-of-prey. "What is
it," their envious, inquisitive glance had seemed to say, "that makes you
so really 'smart'?" And while still seeking for the reason, he noticed
his host pointing out the merits of his port to the hawk-like man, with a
deferential air quite pitiful to see, for the hawk-like man was clearly a
"bad hat." What in the name of goodness did these staid bourgeois mean
by making up to vice? Was it a craving to be thought distinguished, a
dread of being dull, or merely an effect of overfeeding? Again he looked
at his host, who had not yet enumerated all the virtues of his port, and
again felt sorry for him.

"So you're going to marry Antonia Dennant?" said a voice on his right,
with that easy coarseness which is a mark of caste. "Pretty girl!
They've a nice place, the, Dennants. D' ye know, you're a lucky feller!"

The speaker was an old baronet, with small eyes, a dusky, ruddy face, and
peculiar hail-fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly. He was
always hard up, but being a man of enterprise knew all the best people,
as well as all the worst, so that he dined out every night.

"You're a lucky feller," he repeated; "he's got some deuced good
shootin', Dennant! They come too high for me, though; never touched a
feather last time I shot there. She's a pretty girl. You 're a lucky
feller!"

"I know that," said Shelton humbly.

"Wish I were in your shoes. Who was that sittin' on the other side of
you? I'm so dashed short-sighted. Mrs. Carruther? Oh, ay!" An
expression which, if he had not been a baronet, would have been a leer,
came on his lips.

Shelton felt that he was referri