“La ligne droite, voilà l’ennemi!” he would interject repeatedly and ferociously. But fortunately this, his only, constatation usually fitted well into most discussions, artistic, political, or financial.
Close by stood the venerable Bishop of Barset, his shrewd kindly eyes blinking benignly at all around. “Such a favourite of mine,” whispered Lady Jordan to Gaveston. “So broad-minded!”
And there was Major-General Tremullion, ablaze with the decorations of the Irish War. Gav had once pilloried him in an article as “apparently wishing to die as hard as he had lived.” And deep in conversation beside the roaring hearth stood the representatives of contemporary literature: Ermyntrude Tropes, who lived on the novels she published about her friends, and the immaculate figure of Augustus Tollendale, who lived on the novels he was dissuaded from publishing about his.
But the party was apparently still one short.
“I can’t think where Bladge can be, Mr. ffoulis,” said Lady Jordan, who looked a trifle distracted; “I wanted you to take her in. But really we can’t wait.”
Gaveston bowed his surprised regret, and the brilliant house-party swept into the banqueting hall.
Over the substantial viands the guests soon warmed to their favourite topics, and Gav was enabled to see how subtle and intricate was the blending of politicians and artists which made the Jordans’ parties familiar to every reader of the Tatler and the Sketch. He listened appreciatively to the shreds of conversation that floated up the table towards him.
“Ireland!” gasped General Tremullion. “I only asked for fifty tanks, and they——” But the adroit hostess had perceived the warrior’s choleric frustration and changed the subject.
“For Lent reading,” affirmed the Bishop confidently, “I always recommend the ‘Mahabharata.’”
Mr. Tollendale made a hurried note.