"Not yet. What is it that you want with him?"
Mr. Ollivera gave a brief outline of the case; Bede left him in the middle of it to welcome fresh arrivals. Something awfully fine loomed up, in pink silk and lace, and blazing emeralds. It was Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Her chignon was a mile high, and her gown was below her shoulder-blades. The modest young clergyman turned away at the sight, his cheeks flushing a dusky red. Not in this kind of society of late years, the curiosities of fashionable attire were new to him.
"Is Bede mad?" he inwardly said, "or has he lost all control over his wife's actions?"
Somebody else, not used to society, was staring on with all the eyes of wonder he possessed. And that was Roland Yorke. Leaning against the wall in a new suit of dress-clothes, with a huge pair of white gloves on that would have been quite the proper thing at Port Natal, stood Roland. Mr. Ollivera, trying to get away from everybody, ran against him. The two were great friends now, and Roland was in the habit of running up to Mr. Ollivera's drawing-room at will.
"I say," began Roland, "this is rather strong, is it not?"
"Do you mean the crowd?"
"I mean everything. Some of the girls and women look as if they had forgotten to put their gowns on. Why do they dress in this way?"
"Because they fancy it's the fashion, I suppose," replied Mr. Ollivera, drawing down the corners of his thin lips.
"They must have taken the fashion from the Zulu Kaffirs," returned Roland. "When one has been knocked about amidst that savage lot--fought with 'em, too, men and women--one loses superfluous fastidiousness, Mr. Ollivera; but I don't think this is right."
Mr. Ollivera intimated that there could not be a doubt it was all wrong.