Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself in
a glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, a
democrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crusted
conservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but for
the fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instincts
were less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body that
tumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between the
minnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net.

Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who was
entering, and who gave him a curt "H'do."

He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as well
as England. It was the leader of His Majesty's Opposition, the Queen bee
of this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee did
not seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of the
workers and the drones.

Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in.

The place was crowded.

It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, lay
tables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours of
men. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords.

It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect and
self confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no use
putting a toe in.

He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and looking
the luncheon parties in the face.

The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in this
sort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer's glance,
bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of others
fell away, others nodded frigidly, it seemed to Jones. Then, like a
pilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiter
developed and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took a
seat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot.

He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice.
They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roast
elephant's trunk had it been easier and on the menu.

A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after the
Charge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct for
menu hunting as Jones.

He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that was
nothing--he was seated at their ca