‘My dear Magdalen! I was going to say, a nobody would be better than Otho Askam; but as he’s a friend of yours, too, I suppose there are excellences in him which my baser vision can’t perceive. And I know what you mean by “nobody.” That’s poor Roger Camm. Well, I’ll leave you your friend, if you’ll leave me mine.’ ‘I have not the slightest desire to know anything about Mr. Roger Camm—certainly not to interfere with him,’ replied Magdalen coldly. Michael merely smiled the sweet smile which Magdalen, in her heart of hearts, considered insipid, and the discussion ended. At two o’clock on the following afternoon, some forty men, young and old, sat down at the long table, in the great room at the ‘King’s Arms.’ The so-called ‘lunch’ was, in fact, a very substantial dinner, as such luncheons are wont to be. Sir Thomas Winthrop sat at one end of the table, and at the other was a very young man, called Lord Charles Startforth, representing his father. Every family of standing in all the country-side had sent a representative, and every man present was more or less acquainted with every other member of the company. At Sir Thomas’s right hand sat Otho Askam, with a cross look in his eyes, and a more sullen expression than usual on his brow and mouth. Sir Thomas was a very worthy, honourable gentleman, ready to take a paternal interest in any young man of promise; but he was not a student of character, nor acute in reading the silent language of expression, as seen on a human face. From Otho’s quietness, and his monosyllabic answers to the remarks made to him, Sir Thomas augured a milder mood than usual, and resolved that now or never was the time for him to say his say; for he had on his mind ‘a few words’ intended for Otho’s ear—words which he had succeeded in convincing himself it was his duty to say. On the opposite side, a little lower down, sat Gilbert Langstroth, and next to him was Byrom Winthrop. As the wine went round, the talk grew faster and freer. Men saw each other to-day who had, perhaps, not met for some time past, and these meetings called up recollections, brought out questions, to which the expansiveness of the moment produced confidential answers. At the end of the table over which Lord Charles Startforth presided, a discussion suddenly began about some of those who sat near Sir Thomas Winthrop. ‘What a lowering face that Askam has!’ was the observation which began the conversation. ‘His face can’t be more lowering than his temper,’ replied some one else. ‘Hah! I see there’s his inseparable chum, not so far off him.’ ‘Gilbert Langstroth, do you mean? Oh yes! He’s never so far away from him. I have heard that that young man has a very long head, and would not object to going into partnership with Otho Askam—Askam to supply the money, and Langstroth the brains.’ The other laughed. ‘What, on Arthur Orton’s plan, do you mean? “Some people plenty money and no brains, and other people plenty brains and no——”’