'I didn't hear, who is the man?' Jean asked, as those not knowing usually did.
Although far from distinguished in appearance, Mr. Greatorex would have stood in no danger of being overlooked, even if he had not those twinkling jewel-like eyes, and two strands of coal-black hair trained across his large bumpy cranium, from the left ear to the right, and securely pasted there.
'It's that wretched radical, St. John Greatorex.' Mrs. Heriot turned from her niece to Lord Borrodaile. 'What foundation is there,' she demanded, 'for the rumour that he tells such good stories at dinner? I never heard any.'
'Ah, I believe he keeps them till the ladies have left the room.'
'You don't like him, either,' said Mrs. Heriot, reaching out for the balm of alliance with Lord Borrodaile.
But he held aloof. 'Oh, they say he has his points—a good judge of wine, and knows more about Parliamentary procedure than most of us.'
'How you men stand up for one another! You know perfectly well you can't endure him.' Mrs. Heriot jerked her head away and faced the group round the tea-table. 'What is she saying? That she's been to a Suffrage meeting in Hyde Park!'
'How could she! Nothing would induce me to go and listen to such people!' said Miss Dunbarton.
Her eyes, as well as Mrs. Heriot's, were riveted on the tall figure, tea-cup in hand, moving away from the table now to make room for some new arrivals, and drawing after her a portion of the company, including Lady Whyteleafe and Richard Farnborough, who one after another had come in a few moments before. It was to the young man that Greatorex was saying, with a twinkle, 'I am sure Mr. Farnborough agrees with me.'