At the table I had Mrs. Catesby on my right hand, Mrs. Josiah P. Perkins on my left.
"What a lovely man!" said Charybdis on the left.
"I don't believe," said Scylla, "that he has any connection with a circus whatever."
"He is Mrs. Fitz's father, anyhow."
"What is his name?"
"Count Zhygny, but titles are cheap in Illyria."
"It is a noble head," said the Great Lady.
"Objective criticism is proverbially unsafe," I hazarded. "His daughter has a noble face."
"He is just bully." Charybdis was waxing enthusiastic. "Quite Bawston."
The Great Lady addressed herself in grim earnest to the serious business of life, and I am bound to say—although doubtless I am the wrong person to insist on the fact—that it was worthy of all the attention that was paid to it. We were twenty-five minutes late at the post, as Jodey had complained bitterly to his hostess, but the distinguished chef lately in the service of a nobleman had fairly excelled himself. Good-humour, nay, even cordiality, reigned all along the line.