“You must have taken a great deal of trouble over it,” he said, with bright amiability; and then relapsing from the effort:  “it’s all very nice and harmless.”

“Oh!  Mr. Enwright!  Is that all?” She pouted, though still waving the palm.  “And you so fond of the eighteenth century, too!”

“But I heard a rumour at the beginning of this year that we’re living in the twentieth,” said Enwright.

“And I thought I should please you!” sighed Adela.  “What ought I to have done?”

“Well, you might have asked me to design you some furniture.  Nobody ever has asked me yet.”  He rubbed his eyeglasses and blinked.

“Oh!  You geniuses....  Janet darling!”

Mrs. John moved forward to meet Miss Orgreave, John’s appreciably elder sister, spinster, who lived with another brother, Charles, a doctor at Ealing.  Janet was a prim emaciated creature, very straight and dignified, whose glance always seemed to hesitate between benevolence and fastidiousness.  Janet and Charles had consented to forget the episode of the Divorce Court.  Marion, however, the eldest Orgreave sister, mother of a family of daughters, had never received the divorcee.  On the other hand the divorcee, obeying her own code, had obstinately ignored the wife of Jim Orgreave, a younger brother, who, according to the universal opinion, had married disgracefully.

When the sisters-in-law had embraced, with that unconvincing fulsomeness which is apt to result from a charitable act of oblivion, Janet turned lovingly to George and asked after his mother.  She was his mother’s most intimate friend.  In the past he had called her Auntie, and was accustomed to kiss her and be kissed.  Indeed he feared that she might want to kiss him now, but he was spared.  As with negligence of tone he answered her fond inquiries, he was busy reconstructing quite anew his scheme for the bed-sittingroom—­for it had actually been an eighteenth-century scheme, and inspired by the notions of Mrs. John!

At the lunch-table George found that the party consisted of ten persons, of whom one, seated next to himself, was a youngish, somewhat plump woman who had arrived at the last moment.  He had not been introduced to her, nor to the four other strangers, for it had lately reached Bedford Park that introductions were no longer the correct prelude to a meal.  A hostess who wished to be modern should throw her guests in ignorance together and leave them to acquire knowledge by their own initiative.  This device added to the piquancy of a gathering.  Moreover, there was always a theory that each individual was well known, and that therefore to introduce was subtly to insult.  On Mrs. John’s right was a beautifully braided gentleman of forty or so, in brown, with brown necktie and hair to match, and the hair was so perfect and ended so abruptly that George at first took it for a wig; but soon afterwards he decided that he had been unkind.  Mr. Enwright was opposite to this brown gentleman.