After half an hour he dropped the book.  There seemed something rather fatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and was full of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throw no light on anything whatever.  He looked at the author’s name; everyone was highly recommending it.  He began thinking, and staring at the fire . . . .

Looking up, he saw Antonia’s second brother, a young man in the Rifles, bending over him with sunny cheeks and lazy smile, clearly just a little drunk.

“Congratulate you, old chap!  I say, what made you grow that b-b-eastly beard?”

Shelton grinned.

“Pillbottle of the Duchess!” read young Dennant, taking up the book.  “You been reading that?  Rippin’, is n’t it?”

“Oh, ripping!” replied Shelton.

“Rippin’ plot!  When you get hold of a novel you don’t want any rot about—­what d’you call it?—­psychology, you want to be amused.”

“Rather!” murmured Shelton.

“That’s an awfully good bit where the President steals her diamonds There’s old Benjy!  Hallo, Benjy!”

“Hallo, Bill, old man!”

This Benjy was a young, clean-shaven creature, whose face and voice and manner were a perfect blend of steel and geniality.

In addition to this young man who was so smooth and hard and cheery, a grey, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes, called Stroud, came up; together with another man of Shelton’s age, with a moustache and a bald patch the size of a crown-piece, who might be seen in the club any night of the year when there was no racing out of reach of London.

“You know,” began young Dennant, “that this bounder”—­he slapped the young man Benjy on the knee—­“is going to be spliced to-morrow.  Miss Casserol—­you know the Casserols—­Muncaster Gate.”

“By Jove!” said Shelton, delighted to be able to say something they would understand.

“Young Champion’s the best man, and I ’m the second best.  I tell you what, old chap, you ’d better come with me and get your eye in; you won’t get such another chance of practice.  Benjy ’ll give you a card.”

“Delighted!” murmured Benjy.

“Where is it?”

“St. Briabas; two-thirty.  Come and see how they do the trick.  I’ll call for you at one; we’ll have some lunch and go together”; again he patted Benjy’s knee.

Shelton nodded his assent; the piquant callousness of the affair had made him shiver, and furtively he eyed the steely Benjy, whose suavity had never wavered, and who appeared to take a greater interest in some approaching race than in his coming marriage.  But Shelton knew from his own sensations that this could not really be the case; it was merely a question of “good form,” the conceit of a superior breeding, the duty not to give oneself away.  And when in turn he marked the eyes of Stroud fixed on Benjy, under shaggy brows, and the curious greedy glances of the racing man, he felt somehow sorry for him.