Sir Hilton Shutter was thoroughly pleased with life. For one thing, he was standing with his back to a roaring fire: for another, he was a guest at Castle Charing, a pleasant residence to which he had long hoped to be invited: for another, his future wife, seated on a sofa before him, was looking particularly lovely in a frock of powder-blue and gold: finally, from the solemn, almost subdued demeanour of his host and hostess, he perceived that his discourse was creating a profound impression.
A booming note slid into his voice.
“Leadership. To-day, more than ever before, people require a lead. Point them the way, and they’ll move. But you must point it definitely. Your indication must be downright, courageous.” He paused to flick his cigar ash into the grate. “I wrote to The Times to-day,” he continued, frowning.
“Did you?” said his hostess pleasantly. “What about?”
“This question of drunken motorists,” was the reply.
Mrs. Fairie started, and her husband’s hand flew to his moustache.
“It’s more than a public scandal,” continued Shutter. “It’s a national disgrace. I don’t mean——”
“I know,” said Fairie nervously. “There’s been a lot of agitation about it, but——”
“I agree. But the evil remains.”
“Oh, they’ll stamp it out,” said Fairie. “Trust them. People are beginning to see it’s not good enough. By the way——”