"It's right and just and all that of course. But you are taking too high a risk, Luttrell."
The very silence at the table made it clear to Hillyard that Luttrell stood alone in his judgment. But Luttrell only smiled and said:
"Well, old man, since I disagree, the only course is to refer the whole problem to our honorary member."
And at once every countenance lightened, and merriment began to flick and dance from one to other of that company like the beads on the surface of champagne. Only Hillyard was mystified.
"Your honorary member!" he inquired.
Luttrell nodded solemnly, and raised his glass.
"Gentlemen, the Honorary Member of the Senga Mess—Sir Chichester Splay."
The toast was drunk with enthusiasm by all but Hillyard, who sat staring about him and wondering what in the world the Mecænas of the First Nights had in common with these youthful administrators far-flung to the Equator.
"You don't drink, Martin," cried Luttrell. A Socialist at a Public Dinner who refused to honour the Royal Toast could only have scandalised the chairman by a few degrees more than Hillyard's indifference did now.
"I beg your pardon," said Hillyard with humility. "I repair my error now. It was due to amazement."