e of my host introducing me to
phantoms. Then for some while we waited while I struggled with the
situation; conversation flowed slowly. And again the draught came
trailing up the room, while the flaring candles filled it with
hurrying shadows. "Ah, late again, Cicely," said my host in his soft,
mournful way. "Always late, Cicely." Then I went down to dinner with
that man and his mind and the twelve phantoms that haunted it. I found
a long table with fine old silver on it and places laid for fourteen.
The butler was now in evening dress, there were fewer draughts in the
dining-room, the scene was less gloomy there. "Will you sit next to
Rosalind at the other end," Richard said to me. "She always takes the
head of the table, I wronged her most of all." I said, "I shall be
delighted."

I looked at the butler closely, but never did I see by any expression
of his face or by anything that he did any suggestion that he waited
upon less than fourteen people in the complete possession of all their
faculties. Perhaps a dish appeared to be refused more often than taken
but every glass was equally filled with champagne. At first I found
little to say, but when Sir Richard speaking from the far end of the
table said, "You are tired, Mr. Linton," I was reminded that I owed
something to a host upon whom I had forced myself. It was excellent
champagne and with the help of a second glass I made the effort to
begin a conversation with a Miss Helen Errold for whom the place upon
one side of me was laid. It came more easy to me very soon, I
frequently paused in my monologue, like Mark Anthony, for a reply, and
sometimes I turned and spoke to Miss Rosalind Smith. Sir Richard at
the other end talked sorrowfully on, he spoke as a condemned man might
speak to his judge, and yet somewhat as a judge might speak to one
that he once condemned wrongly. My own mind began to turn to mournful
things. I drank another glass of champagne, but I was still thirsty. I
felt as if all the moisture in my body had been blown away over the
downs of Kent by the wind up which we had galloped. Still I was not
talking enough; my host was looking at me. I made another effort,
after all I had something to talk about, a twenty-mile point is not
often seen in a lifetime, especially south of the Thames. I began to
describe the run to Rosalind Smith. I could see then that my host was
pleased, the sad look in his face gave a kind of a flicker, like mist
upon the mountain