rdly looks like
it now, does it?"

"Who?" I asked. "What?--oh!--Justin."

"The great financial cannibal. Suppose she turned him into a
philanthropist! Stranger things have happened. Look!--now. The man's
face is positively tender."

I hated looking, and I could not help but look. It was as if this
detestable old woman was dragging me down and down, down far below all
dignity to her own level of a peeping observer. Justin was saying
something to Mary in an undertone, something that made her glance up
swiftly and at me before she answered, and there I was with my head side
by side with those quivering dyed curls, that flighty black bonnet, that
remorseless observant lorgnette. I could have sworn aloud at the
hopeless indignity of my pose.

I saw Mary color quickly before I looked away.

"Charming, isn't she?" said Lady Viping, and I discovered those infernal
glasses were for a moment honoring me. They shut with a click. "Ham,"
said Lady Viping. "I told him no ham--and now I remember--I like ham. Or
rather I like spinach. I forgot the spinach. One has the ham for the
spinach,--don't you think? Yes,--tell him. She's a perfect Dresden
ornament, Mr. Stratton. She's adorable ... (lorgnette and search for
fresh topics). Who is the dark lady with the slight moustache--sitting
there next to Guy? Sir Godfrey, who is the dark lady? No, I don't mean
Mary Fitton. Over there! Mrs. Roperstone. Ooh. _The_ Mrs. Roperstone.
(Renewed lorgnette and click.) Yes--ham. With spinach. A lot of spinach.
There's Mr. Evesham laughing again. He's greatly amused. Unusual for him
to laugh twice. At least, aloud. (Rustle and adjustment of lorgnette.)
Mr. Stratton, don't you think?--exactly like a little shepherdess. Only
I can't say I think Mr. Justin is like a shepherd. On the whole, more
like a large cloisonne jar. Now Guy would do. As a pair they're
beautiful. Pity they're brother and sister. Curious how that boy manages
to be big and yet delicate. H'm. Mixed mantel ornaments. Sir Godfrey,
how old _is_ Mrs. Roperstone?... You never know on principle. I think I
shall make Mr. Stratton guess. What do you think, Mr. Stratton?... You
never guess on principle! Well, we're all very high principled. (Fresh
exploratory movements of the lorgnette.) Mr. Stratton, tell me; is that
little peaked man near Lady Ladislaw Mr. Roperstone? I thought as much!"

All this chatter is mixed up in my mind with an unusual sense of
hovering attentive menservants, who