The Earl of Maltenby, who entered a moment later, was depressingly typical. He was as tall as his youngest son, with whom he shook hands absently and whom he resembled in no other way. He had the conventionally aristocratic features, thin lips and steely blue eyes. He was apparently a little annoyed.
“Anything wrong, dear?” Lady Maltenby asked.
Her husband took up his position on the hearthrug.
“I am annoyed with Stenson,” he declared.
The Countess shook her head.
“It’s too bad of you, Henry,” she expostulated. “You’ve been trying to talk politics with him. You know that the poor man was only longing for forty-eight hours during which he could forget that he was Prime Minister of England.”
“Precisely, my dear,” Lord Maltenby agreed. “I can assure you that I have not transgressed in any way. A remark escaped me referring to the impossibility of providing beaters, nowadays, and to the fact that out of my seven keepers, five are fighting. I consider Mr. Stenson’s comment was most improper, coming from one to whom the destinies of this country are confided.”
“What did he say?” the Countess asked meekly.
“Something about wondering whether any man would be allowed to have seven keepers after the war,” her husband replied, with an angry light in his eyes. “If a man like Stenson is going to encourage these socialistic ideas. I beg your pardon—the Bishop, my dear.”
The remaining guests drifted in within the next few moments,—the Bishop, Julian’s godfather, a curious blend of the fashionable and the devout, the anchorite and the man of the people; Lord and Lady Shervinton, elderly connections of the nondescript variety; Mr. Hannaway Wells, reserved yet, urbane, a wonderful type of the supreme success of mediocrity; a couple of young soldiers, light-hearted and out for a good time, of whom Julian took charge; an Oxford don, who had once been Lord Maltenby’s tutor; and last of all the homely, very pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady, Princess Torski, followed by her niece. There were a few introductions still to be effected.