St. Michael was one of those dapper bird-like illusorily-active men, who seem to have been in a certain stage of middle-age for as long as human memory can recall them.  A close-cut peaked beard lent a certain dignity to his appearance—­a loan which the rest of his features and mannerisms were continually and successfully repudiating.  His profession, if he had one, was submerged in his hobby, which consisted of being an advance-agent for small happenings or possible happenings that were or seemed imminent in the social world around him; he found a perpetual and unflagging satisfaction in acquiring and retailing any stray items of gossip or information, particularly of a matrimonial nature, that chanced to come his way.  Given the bare outline of an officially announced engagement he would immediately fill it in with all manner of details, true or, at any rate, probable, drawn from his own imagination or from some equally exclusive source.  The Morning Post might content itself with the mere statement of the arrangement which would shortly take place, but it was St. Michael’s breathless little voice that proclaimed how the contracting parties had originally met over a salmon-fishing incident, why the Guards’ Chapel would not be used, why her Aunt Mary had at first opposed the match, how the question of the children’s religious upbringing had been compromised, etc., etc., to all whom it might interest and to many whom it might not.  Beyond his industriously-earned pre-eminence in this special branch of intelligence, he was chiefly noteworthy for having a wife reputed to be the tallest and thinnest woman in the Home Counties.  The two were sometimes seen together in Society, where they passed under the collective name of St. Michael and All Angles.

“We are trying to find a rich wife for Courtenay Youghal,” said Serena, in answer to St. Michael’s question.

“Ah, there I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he observed, glowing with the importance of pending revelation; “I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he repeated, watching the effect of his words as a gardener might watch the development of a bed of carefully tended asparagus.  “I think the young gentleman has been before you and already found himself a rich mate in prospect.”

He lowered his voice as he spoke, not with a view to imparting impressive mystery to his statement, but because there were other table groups within hearing to whom he hoped presently to have the privilege of re-disclosing his revelation.

“Do you mean—?” began Serena.

“Miss de Frey,” broke in St. Michael, hurriedly, fearful lest his revelation should be forestalled, even in guesswork; “quite an ideal choice, the very wife for a man who means to make his mark in politics.  Twenty-four thousand a year, with prospects of more to come, and a charming place of her own not too far from town.  Quite the type of girl, too, who will make a good political hostess, brains without being brainy, you know.  Just the right thing.  Of course, it would be premature to make any definite announcement at present—­”