"American," summed up the Duchess, accepting her host's arm. Mrs Holbrook sorted the vast party every evening and paired them off for dinner.
Lord Boredom received Lady Sukey Ploddy's substantial hand upon his coat sleeve, and intelligently remarked, "Eh oh, Imagin," when she told him she was looking forward to the races.
The minister took in his hostess, and found the dancer at their table for four. "I like this," said Miss Moover contentedly, taking caviare. "Nice of 'em to ask me, wasn't it? Old Luke—"
"That's your hostess," said the minister, hurriedly. The magnificence of dinner descended upon them and the food. One reached for fish beneath a truffle-spangled vest of sauce; one poked at a snowy tower and found that upon the menu it was harmless chicken in disguise. If the cook did not earn her salary by spending money on elaboration she would be speedily replaced.
Gay voices, light laughter, rang up to the vaulted roof. Armies of powdered footmen moved deftly among the tables. The celebrated Holbrook wines were poured out lavishly.
One finished with bad coffee and took choice of a dozen liqueurs, the blue haze of smoke floating around the heated air. Huge golden boxes, initialled and becrested, stood on the tables, filled with cigars and cigarettes; the butler, faintly proud of so much wasted money, stood for a moment before he left. Red bars gleamed along the shining mahogany from the rich ruby of the port.
The dull people drifted away with their hostess to the drawing-room to read and work and gossip, but the Duchess lingered in the palm court waiting for her son.
"A very nice-looking girl," said Her Grace. "Miss Moover, I think I have seen you somewhere."
"Perhaps," said Mavis, civilly. "Perhaps, Duchess."
Lord Boredom, who had quite woke up, sniggered softly; for the rest of the evening the Cabinet minister, who was a philosopher, realized the power of youth over mere prestige as he watched the Marquis of Boredom devote himself to a demure-looking girl in black, with the manifest approval of his mother.