His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.
“Here, take this away; it's overdone;” said he. “Bring me some lamb.”
Shelton pushed his table back.
“Good-night,” he said; “the Stilton's excellent!”
His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate.
In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and took his weight. “Eleven stone!” he thought; “gone up!” and, clipping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel.
After half an hour he dropped the book. There seemed something rather fatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and was full of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throw no light on anything whatever. He looked at the author's name; everyone was highly recommending it. He began thinking, and staring at the fire....
Looking up, he saw Antonia's second brother, a young man in the Rifles, bending over him with sunny cheeks and lazy smile, clearly just a little drunk.
“Congratulate you, old chap! I say, what made you grow that b-b-eastly beard?”
Shelton grinned.