“Don’t talk nonsense, and don’t stretch like that!” she said; “you’re too large already....”

At dinner that night they were all in possession of the news.  Sir William had been informed by the local agent at Staverton, where Lord Harbinger’s speech had suffered from some rude interruptions.  The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow; having sent his wife on, had flown over in his biplane from Winkleigh, and brought a copy of ‘the rag’ with him.  The one member of the small house-party who had not heard the report before dinner was Lord Dennis Fitz-Harold, Lady Casterley’s brother.

Little, of course, was said.  But after the ladies had withdrawn, Harbinger, with that plain-spoken spontaneity which was so unexpected, perhaps a little intentionally so, in connection with his almost classically formed face, uttered words to the effect that, if they did not fundamentally kick that rumour, it was all up with Miltoun.  Really this was serious!  And the beggars knew it, and they were going to work it.  And Miltoun had gone up to Town, no one knew what for.  It was the devil of a mess!

In all the conversation of this young man there was that peculiar brand of voice, which seems ever rebutting an accusation of being serious—­a brand of voice and manner warranted against anything save ridicule; and in the face of ridicule apt to disappear.  The words, just a little satirically spoken:  “What is, my dear young man?” stopped him at once.

Looking for the complement and counterpart of Lady Casterley, one would perhaps have singled out her brother.  All her abrupt decision was negated in his profound, ironical urbanity.  His voice and look and manner were like his velvet coat, which had here and there a whitish sheen, as if it had been touched by moonlight.  His hair too had that sheen.  His very delicate features were framed in a white beard and moustache of Elizabethan shape.  His eyes, hazel and still clear, looked out very straight, with a certain dry kindliness.  His face, though unweathered and unseamed, and much too fine and thin in texture, had a curious affinity to the faces of old sailors or fishermen who have lived a simple, practical life in the light of an overmastering tradition.  It was the face of a man with a very set creed, and inclined to be satiric towards innovations, examined by him and rejected full fifty years ago.  One felt that a brain not devoid either of subtlety or aesthetic quality had long given up all attempts to interfere with conduct; that all shrewdness of speculation had given place to shrewdness of practical judgment based on very definite experience.  Owing to lack of advertising power, natural to one so conscious of his dignity as to have lost all care for it, and to his devotion to a certain lady, only closed by death, his life had been lived, as it were, in shadow.  Still, he possessed a peculiar influence in Society, because it was known to be impossible to get him to look at things in a complicated way.  He was regarded rather as a last resort, however.  “Bad as that?  Well, there’s old Fitz-Harold!  Try him!  He won’t advise you, but he’ll say something.”