“Here is Sir Oliver now.”
Through the swing doors an elderly man with a ruddy, rather apoplectic face, and close-set opaque eyes, precipitantly advanced.
“Ladies!”
“‘Ladies’ indeed, Sir Oliver.”
“As if——”
“Monster.”
“Excuse me, Serephine.”
“Your pardon rests with Miss Sinquier,” Mrs. Sixsmith said with melodious inflections as she showed the way towards the restaurant. “Address your petitions to her.”
In the crescent-shaped, cedar-walled, cedar-beamed room, a table at a confidential angle had been reserved.
“There’s a big gathering here to-night,” Sir Oliver observed, glancing round him, a “board-room” mask clinging to him still.