“Not particularly.  Where did you get that idea?”

His neighbour looked round negligently.

“Oh,” said he, “I somehow thought so”; and Shelton almost heard him adding, “There’s something not quite sound about you.”

“Why do you admire Jellaby?” he asked.

“Knows his own mind,” replied his neighbour; “it ’s more than the others do . . . .  This whitebait is n’t fit for cats!  Clever fellow, Jellaby!  No nonsense about him!  Have you ever heard him speak?  Awful good sport to watch him sittin’ on the Opposition.  A poor lot they are!” and he laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a small minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass.

“Minorities are always depressing,” said Shelton dryly.

“Eh? what?”

“I mean,” said Shelton, “it’s irritating to look at people who have n’t a chance of success—­fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and all that.”

His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively.

“Er—­yes, quite,” said he; “don’t you take mint sauce?  It’s the best part of lamb, I always think.”

The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to regain its influence on Shelton.  How many times had he not sat there, carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was used to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who was not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole over him.  Happy!  That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall.

“Look at poor little Bing puffin’ about,” said his neighbour, pointing to a weazened, hunchy waiter.  “His asthma’s awf’ly bad; you can hear him wheezin’ from the street.”

He seemed amused.

“There ’s no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose?” said Shelton.

His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.

“Here, take this away; it’s overdone;” said he.  “Bring me some lamb.”

Shelton pushed his table back.

“Good-night,” he said; “the Stilton’s excellent!”

His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate.

In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and took his weight.  “Eleven stone!” he thought; “gone up!” and, clipping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel.

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.