‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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