The libertarians at once took him for their own.  The disciplinarians gave him to understand with their eyes that it might have been better if he, as a new member attending his first meeting, had kept silence.  The discussion was inflamed.  One or two people glanced surreptitiously at their watches.  The hour had long passed six thirty.  G.J. grew anxious about his rendezvous with Christine.  He had enjoined exactitude upon Christine.  But the main body of the excited and happy committee had no thought of the flight of time.  The amusements of the tiny town came up for review.  As a fact, there was only one amusement, the cinema.  The whole town went to the cinema.  Cinemas were always darkened; human nature was human nature....  G.J. had an extraordinarily realistic vision of the hospital staff slaving through its long and heavy day and its everlasting week and preparing in sections to amuse itself on certain evenings, and thinking with pleasant anticipation of the ecstasies of the cinema, and pathetically unsuspicious that its fate was being decided by a council of omnipotent deities in the heaven of a London hotel.

“Mamma has never mentioned the subject to me,” said Lady Queenie in response to a question, looking at her rich muff.

“This is a question of principle,” said somebody sharply, implying that at last individual consciences were involved and that the opinions of the Marchioness of Lechford had ceased to weigh.

“I’m afraid it’s getting late,” said the impassive chairman.  “We must come to some decision.”

In the voting Lady Queenie, after hesitation, raised her hand with the disciplinarians.  By one vote the libertarians were defeated, and the dalliance of the hospital staff in leisure hours received a severe check.

“She would—­of course!” breathed a sharp-nosed little woman in the chair next but one to G.J., gazing inimically at the lax mouth and cynical eyes of Lady Queenie, who for four years had been the subject of universal whispering, and some shouting, and one or two ferocious battles in London.

Chair-legs scraped.  People rose here and there to go as they rise in a music hall after the Scottish comedian has retired, bowing, from his final encore.  They protested urgent appointments elsewhere.  The chairman remarked that other important decisions yet remained to be taken; but his voice had no insistence because he had already settled the decisions in his own mind.  G.J. seized the occasion to depart.

“Mr. Hoape,” the chairman detained him a moment.  “The committee hope you will allow yourself to be nominated to the accounts sub-committee.  We understand that you are by way of being an expert.  The sub-committee meets on Wednesday mornings at eleven—­doesn’t it, Sir Charles?”

“Half-past,” said Sir Charles.

“Oh!  Half-past.”

G.J., somewhat surprised to learn of his expertise in accountancy, consented to the suggestion, which renewed his resolution, impaired somewhat by the experience of the meeting, to be of service in the world.