Hillyard was silent for a minute.  Then he asked another question.

“Do you know who is going to be there beside Luttrell and myself?”

Sir Charles smiled.

“I don’t know, but I fancy that you won’t find him amongst the guests.”

Hillyard was a little startled by the answer, but he did not betray the least sign of surprise.  He pursued his questions.

“You know whom I have in my mind?”

“I drew a bow at a venture,” answered Sir Charles.

“Shall I name him?” asked Hillyard.

“I will,” returned Sir Charles.  “Mario Escobar.”

Hillyard nodded.  He took another pull at his whisky-and-soda.  Then he lit a cigarette and leaned forward, with his elbows upon his knees; and all the while Sir Charles Hardiman, his body in a majestic repose, contemplated him placidly.  Hardiman had this great advantage in any little matter of debate; he never wished to move.  Place him in a chair, and he remained, singularly immobile.

“Since you were so quick to guess at once the reason of my question,” continued Hillyard, “I can draw an inference.  Mario Escobar has been at Rackham Park a good deal?”

Sir Charles Hardiman’s smile broadened.

“Even now you don’t express your inference,” he retorted.  “You mean that Mario Escobar has been at Rackham Park too much.”  He paused whilst he drew out his cigarette-case and selected a cigarette from it.  “And I agree,” he added.  “Mario Escobar is too picturesque a person for these primitive days.”

Hillyard was not sure what Sir Charles Hardiman precisely meant.  But on the other hand he was anxious to ask no direct questions concerning Escobar.  He sought to enter in by another gate.

“Primitive?” he said.

“Yes.  We have become rather primitive, especially the women.  They have lost a deal of self-consciousness.  They exact less.  They give more—­oh, superbly more!  It’s the effect of war, of course.  They have jumped down off their little pinnacles.  Let me put it coarsely.  They are saved from rape by the fighting man, and they know it.  Consequently all men benefit and not least,” Sir Charles lit his cigarette, “that beast of abomination, the professional manipulator of women, the man who lives by them and on them, who cajoles them first and blackmails them afterwards, who has the little attentions, the appealing voice, in fact all the tricks of his trade ready at his fingers’ ends.  However, Millie Splay’s awake to the danger now.”

“Danger!” Hillyard sharply exclaimed.

“Quite right.  It’s too strong a word.  I take it back,” Hardiman agreed at once.  But he was not in the habit of using words wildly.  He had said exactly what he meant to say, and having aroused the attention which he meant to arouse, he calmly withdrew the word.  “I rubbed it into Chichester’s thick head that Escobar was overmuch at Rackham Park, and in the end—­it percolated.”