“Is small talk one of them?” asked Hugh.  “It has always been a difficulty to me.”

“On the contrary,” said Rachel.  “I plume myself on that.  Surely my present sample is not so much below the average that you need ask me that.”

“I did not recognize that it was small talk,” said Hugh, with a faint smile.  “If it really is, I can only say I shall have brain fever if you pass on to what you might call conversation.”

It was to him as if a miniature wavelet of a great ocean somewhere in the distance had crept up to laugh and break at his feet.  He did not recognize that this tiniest runlet which fell back at once was of the same element as the tidal wave which had swept over him yesternight.

“But are you aware,” said Rachel, dropping her voice a little, “it is beginning to dawn upon me that this evening’s gathering is met together for exalted conversation, and perhaps we ought to be practising a little.  I feel certain that after dinner you will be ’drawn through the clefts of confession’ by Miss Barker, the woman in the high dinner gown with orange velvet sleeves.  Mrs. Loftus introduced her to me when I arrived as the ‘apostle of humanity.’”

“Why should you fix on that particular apostle for me?” said Hugh, looking resentfully at a large-faced woman who was talking in an “intense” manner to a slightly bewildered Bishop.

“It is a prophetic instinct, nothing more.”

“I will have a prophetic instinct, too, then,” said Hugh, helping himself at last to the dish which was presented to him, to Rachel’s relief.  “I shall give you the—­” looking slowly down the table.

“The Bishop?”

“Certainly not, after your disposal of me.”

“Well, then, the poet?  I am sure he is a poet because his tie is uneven and his hair is so long.  Why do literary men wear their hair long, and literary women wear it short.  I should like the poet.”

“You shall not have him,” said Hugh, with decision.  “I am hesitating between the bald young man with the fat hand and the immense ring and the old professor who is drawing plans on the table-cloth.”

“The apostle told me with bated breath that the young man with the ring is Mr. Harvey, the author of Unashamed.”

Hugh looked at his plate to conceal his disgust.

There was a pause in the buzz of conversation, and into it fell straightway the voice of the apostle like a brick through a skylight.

“The need of the present age is the realization of our brotherhood with sin and suffering and poverty.  West London in satin and diamonds does not hear her sister East London in rags calling to her to deliver her.  The voice of East London has been drowned in the dance-music of the West End.”

Sybell gazed with awed admiration at the apostle.

“What a beautiful thought,” she said.

“Miss Gresley’s Idyll of East London,” said Hugh, “is a voice which, at any rate, has been fully heard.”