“Mrs. Seventon,” he said.  “Yes, thanks.”

Selina looked up at him with an arch smile.

“Mrs. Seventon is most dreadfully proper,” she said.  “You will have to be on your best behaviour.  Oh, here comes some one.  What a bother!”

There was an influx of guests.  Mrs. Bullsom, reduced to a state of chaotic nervousness, was pushed as far into the background as possible by her daughters, and Mr. Bullsom, banished from the hearth where he felt surest of himself, plunged into a conversation with Mr. Seventon on the weather.  Brooks leaned over towards Mary.

“Wednesday week at eight o’clock, then,” he said.  “I want to have a chat with you about the subject.”

“Not now,” she interposed.  “You know these people, don’t you, and the Huntingdons?  Go and talk to them, please.”

Brooks laughed, and went to the rescue.  He won Mrs. Bullsom’s eternal gratitude by diverting Mrs. Seventon’s attention from her, and thereby allowing her a moment or two to recover herself.  Somehow or other a buzz of conversation was kept up until the solemn announcement of dinner.  And when she was finally seated in her place, and saw a couple of nimble waiters, with the greengrocer in the back, looking cool and capable, she felt that the worst was over.

The solemn process of sampling doubtful-looking entries and eating saddle of mutton to the tune of a forced conversation was got through without disaster.  Mrs. Bullsom felt her fat face break out into smiles.  Mr. Bullsom, though he would like to have seen everybody go twice for everything, began to expand.  He had already recited the story of Kingston Brooks’ greatness to both of his immediate neighbours, and in a casual way mentioned his early patronage of that remarkable young man.  And once meeting his eye he raised his glass.

“Not quite up to the Enton vintage, Brooks, eh? but all right, I hope.”

Brooks nodded back, and resumed his conversation.  Selina took the opportunity to mention casually to her neighbour, Mr. Huntingdon, that Mr. Brooks was a great friend of Lord Arranmore’s, and Louise, on her side of the table, took care also to disseminate the same information.  Everybody was properly impressed.  Mr. Bullsom decided to give a dinner-party every month, and to double the greengrocer’s tip, and by the time Selina’s third stage whisper had reached her mother and the ladies finally departed, he was in a state of geniality bordering upon beatitude.  There was a general move to his end of the table.  Mr. Bullsom started the port, and his shirt-front grew wider and wider.  He lit a cigar, and his thumb found its way to the armhole of his waistcoat.  At that moment Mr. Bullsom would not have changed places with any man on earth.

“What sort of a place is Enton to stay at, Brooks, eh?” he inquired, in a friendly manner.  “Keeps it up very well, don’t he, the present Marquis?”

Brooks sighed.