"Is—is the Archdeacon here, Mr Garth?" she inquired. "He used to know my father slightly."
"The Archdeacon regrets—a conference at York. But that is Mrs Pringle just coming in. Let me take you up to her."
Sir Edwin Goodchild took Mr Garth's secretary aside. "I say, Fergy," he said, "what the deuce is all this?"
"This?" said Ferguson, innocently. "This is a private reception-room at the Ritz. Style, Louis Quinze or thereabouts. Through those folding doors, when at the appointed time they are opened, we enter the luncheon-room. There we eat huitres Lucullus, consommé norvégienne, filets—"
"Now, don't talk nonsense."
"Nonsense, man? Considering I constructed the menu myself, I—"
"Yes, but the people. Look at that lot just come in."
"My poor lost sheep, I'll tell you just two things. Firstly, we are eccentric millionaires. Secondly, you will be seated at lunch between Colonel Harriet Stokes, of the Salvation Army, and Miss Paul, a manicure lady."
"Let me out. This is a nightmare."
"No, it's a fact, and I'll prove it to you by introducing to your kind attention Mr Pudbrook, the editor of Happy Homes. He somewhat interferes with your profession by giving remedies for black-heads and indigestion in his paper on alternate weeks. But don't let that prejudice you against him."