The old host, still under the influence of his hallucination, is bearing down like a hawk (with his old bent elbow extended) on Barbara, until intercepted and redirected by a whispered roar and graphic pantomime on the part of his nephew.  Then, at last, he realizes Roger’s bad taste, and we go in.

As soon as we are seated, I look about me.  It is a round table.  For my part, I hate a round table.  There is no privacy in it.  Everybody seems eavesdropping on everybody else.

There are only eight of us in all—­those I have enumerated, and Algy.  Yes, he is here.  Bellona is a goddess who can always spare her sons when there is any chance of their getting into mischief.  Roger has taken Mrs. Huntley. That, poor man, he could hardly help, his only alternative being his own sister-in-law.  Musgrave has taken Barbara.  He is still as white as the table-cloth, and hardly speaks.  It is clear that he will not get up his conversation again, until after the champagne has been round.  Algy has taken no one; and, consequently, a bear is an amiable and affable beast in comparison of him.  I am placed between our host and his nephew.  The latter comes in for a good deal of my conversation, as most of my remarks have to be taken up and rebellowed by him with a loud emphasis, that contrasts absurdly with their triviality; and even then they mostly miscarry, and turn into something totally different.

Talking to the old man is not a dialogue, but a couple of soliloquies, carried on mostly on different subjects, which in vain try to become the same, between two interlocutors.  Through soup we prospered—­that is to say, we talked of the weather; and though I said several things about it that surprised me a good deal, yet we both knew that we were talking of the weather.  But since then we have been diverging ever more and more hopelessly. He is at the shah’s visit, and so he imagines am I. I, on the contrary, am at the Bishop of Winchester’s death, and, for the last five minutes have been trying, with all the force of my lungs, and with a face rendered scarlet by the double action of heat and of the consciousness of being the object of respectful attention to the whole company, to convey to him that, in my opinion, the deceased prelate ought to have been buried in Westminster Abbey.  I have at last succeeded, at least in so far as to make him understand that I wish somebody to be buried in Westminster Abbey; but, as he still persists in thinking it the shah, we are perhaps not much better off than we were before.  I lean back with a sense of despairing defeat, and, behind my fan, turn to the young man on the other side.  He is a jolly-looking fellow, with an aureole of fiery red hair.

“Would you mind,” say I, with panting appeal, “trying to make him understand that it is not the shah?”