Lord Moggeridge was paralyzed with amazement. His legs were struck from under him. He uttered one brief topographical cry. (To Sir Peter unfortunately it sounded like “Help!”) For a few seconds the impressions that rushed upon Lord Moggeridge were too rapid for adequate examination. He had a compelling fancy to kill butlers. Things culminated in a pistol shot. And then he found himself sitting on the landing beside a disgracefully dishevelled manservant, and his host was running downstairs to them with a revolver in his hand. On occasion Lord Moggeridge could produce a tremendous voice. He did so now. For a moment he stared panting at Sir Peter, and then emphasized by a pointing finger came the voice. Never had it been so charged with emotion. “What does this _mean_, you, Sir?” he shouted. “What does this mean?” It was exactly what Sir Peter had intended to say. § 5 Explanations are detestable things. And anyhow it isn’t right to address your host as “You, Sir.” § 6 Throughout the evening the persuasion had grown in Lady Laxton’s mind that all was not going well with the Lord Chancellor. It was impossible to believe he was enjoying himself. But she did not know how to give things a turn for the better. Clever women would have known, but she was so convinced she was not clever that she did not even try. Thing after thing had gone wrong. How was she to know that there were two sorts of philosophy,—quite different? She had thought philosophy was philosophy. But it seemed that there were these two sorts, if not more; a round large sort that talked about the Absolute and was scornfully superior and rather irascible, and a jabby-pointed sort that called people “Tender” or “Tough,” and was generally much too familiar. To bring them together was just mixing trouble. There ought to be little books for hostesses explaining these things.... Then it was extraordinary that the Lord Chancellor, who was so tremendously large and clever, wouldn’t go and talk to Mrs. Rampound Pilby, who was also so tremendously large and clever. Repeatedly Lady Laxton had tried to get them into touch with one another. Until at last the Lord Chancellor had said distinctly and deliberately, when she had suggested his going across to the eminent writer, “God forbid!” Her dream of a large clever duologue that she could afterwards recall with pleasure was altogether shattered. She thought the Lord Chancellor uncommonly hard to please. These weren’t the only people for him. Why couldn’t he chat party secrets with Slinker Bond or say things to Lord Woodenhouse? You could say anything you liked to Lord Woodenhouse. Or talk with Mr. Timbre. Mrs. Timbre had given him an excellent opening; she had asked, “Wasn’t it a dreadful anxiety always to have the Great Seal to mind?” He had simply _grunted_.... And then why did he keep on looking so _dangerously_ at Captain Douglas?...