The camera in the brain clicks, rolls away the picture.
Second impression: Sir Simeon, sixty-eight, a little man, white-haired, blue-eyed, mustache floppy, charming, not very efficient, presumably the weaker matrimonial vessel--his wife ought never to wear pink--Sir Simeon's three daughters, obviously by his first marriage, two with wedding-rings, thirty-eight, thirty-six, nonentities--their partners ditto--an ugly one, younger, rather interesting.
"My sympathies are entirely with the Jugo-Slavs, Sir Simeon. Italy is not entitled to a yard of territory more than we guaranteed her by the Treaty of London," says Julia Cavendish, society-woman.
The camera continues its work.
Third impression: the secretary of the Spanish embassy would look exactly like a bull-fighter if he wore the national costume instead of civilized evening-dress--General Fellowes has aged since the War Office inquiry--a fine type--the big woman he has taken in to dinner would look like a cantaloup melon if you cut her in two--the pretty girl flirting with the young soldier (Guards?) must be her daughter.
"Aren't you rather hard on our allies, Mrs. Cavendish?" chips in Hector Brunton.
"I have no patience with d'Annunzio."
"But at least you will admit that he is a patriot," protests Sir Simeon.
"No bombastic person is really patriotic. Patriotism is a dumb virtue."
"But is patriotism a virtue?" asks the K.C.