But old Sir Timothy Smith, given a knighthood last Christmas for designing the market-hall of a northern city, assured Mr. Verinder that the great man had dined with Mrs. Clutton and no one else.
“Refresh my memory about him,” said Mr. Verinder. “I remember the Antarctic voyages. But what’s his latest?”
“Well, nothing since that astounding performance in the Andes.”
“Some of that has been questioned, hasn’t it? Travellers’ tales, what!” said Mr. Verinder, with a large tolerant smile. “Ah, there you are, my dear.”
Mrs. Verinder, sailing forth splendidly from the cloak-room, was at his elbow.
“Dyke, the explorer, is here,” she said.
“Yes, so Sir Timothy was telling me. Lead on, my dear.”
And Mrs. Verinder led on, broad but splendid still in the back-view, carrying her train with a stout round forearm, followed by the grand young married lady and the slim demurely graceful girl, and lastly by Mr. Verinder. As they went upstairs, the music took a classical turn—a turn for the worse, Mr. Verinder considered.
After an ill-timed stentorian announcement, they were received in the midst of a few hushes, with silent cordiality by Mrs. Clutton. She was amiable and friendly as ever, leading Mrs. Verinder to a seat when the music stopped, but a little nervous or self-conscious by reason of the presence of the lion of the season.
“Yes, the big man leaning against the wall.”