“My name’s Lonsdale. I think we’re on the same staircase—so’s Mackintosh. It’s a pity he’s an Harrovian, but I promised my mother I’d look him up.”
Then, after surveying the table, Lonsdale went on in a confidential undertone:
“I don’t mind telling you that the Etonians up here are a pretty poor lot. There are two chaps from my house who are not so bad—in fact rather good eggs—but the rest! Well, look at that ass Wedderburn. He’s typical.”
“I think he looks rather a good sort,” said Michael.
“My dear chap, he was absolutely barred. M’ tutor used to like him, but really—well—I don’t mind telling you, he’s really an æsthete.”
With this shocked condemnation, Lonsdale turned to his other neighbor and said in his jerky and somewhat mincing voice that was perfectly audible to Michael:
“I say, Tommy, this man on my right isn’t half bad. I don’t know where he comes from, His name’s Fane.”
“He’s from St. James’.”
“Where on earth’s that?”