He had already learnt from Lincoln that these were the leaders of existing London society; almost every person there that night was either a powerful official or the immediate connexion of a powerful official.  Many had returned from the European Pleasure Cities expressly to welcome him.  The aeronautic authorities, whose defection had played a part in the overthrow of the Council only second to Graham’s, were very prominent, and so, too, was the Wind Vane Control.  Amongst others there were several of the more prominent officers of the Food Department; the controller of the European Piggeries had a particularly melancholy and interesting countenance and a daintily cynical manner.  A bishop in full canonicals passed athwart Graham’s vision, conversing with a gentleman dressed exactly like the traditional Chaucer, including even the laurel wreath.

“Who is that?” he asked almost involuntarily.

“The Bishop of London,” said Lincoln.

“No—­the other, I mean.”

“Poet Laureate.”

“You still—?”

“He doesn’t make poetry, of course.  He’s a cousin of Wotton—­one of the Councillors.  But he’s one of the Red Rose Royalists—­a delightful club—­and they keep up the tradition of these things.”

“Asano told me there was a King.”

“The King doesn’t belong.  They had to expel him.  It’s the Stuart blood, I suppose; but really—­”

“Too much?”

“Far too much.”

Graham did not quite follow all this, but it seemed part of the general inversion of the new age.  He bowed condescendingly to his first introduction.  It was evident that subtle distinctions of class prevailed even in this assembly, that only to a small proportion of the guests, to an inner group, did Lincoln consider it appropriate to introduce him.  This first introduction was the Master Aeronaut, a man whose sun-tanned face contrasted oddly with the delicate complexions about him.  Just at present his critical defection from the Council made him a very important person indeed.

His manner contrasted very favourably, according to Graham’s ideas, with the general bearing.  He offered a few commonplace remarks, assurances of loyalty and frank inquiries about the Master’s health.  His manner was breezy, his accent lacked the easy staccato of latter-day English.  He made it admirably clear to Graham that he was a bluff “aerial dog”—­he used that phrase—­that there was no nonsense about him, that he was a thoroughly manly fellow and old-fashioned at that, that he didn’t profess to know much, and that what he did not know was not worth knowing.  He made a curt bow, ostentatiously free from obsequiousness, and passed.

“I am glad to see that type endures,” said Graham.

“Phonographs and kinematographs,” said Lincoln, a little spitefully.  “He has studied from the life.”  Graham glanced at the burly form again.  It was oddly reminiscent.

“As a matter of fact we bought him,” said Lincoln.  “Partly.  And partly he was afraid of Ostrog.  Everything rested with him.”