They sat down, a round dozen of them, to a round table, red with holly and white with mistletoe, in a private sitting-room on the first floor: three married couples, the Starks, the Jamesons, Colonel and Mrs. Mallory (a jolly old Artillery “dug-out,” well over seventy, with red cheeks, white moustaches, and a pink and white wife, five years his junior, to match): Harold Bromley, very shy with Mrs. Armitage, a sprightly middle-aged widow, alternately horsy and languorous: Torrington, a fair pale dark-eyed boy, who wore the three stars of a Captain, and told Patricia, when she asked what his brick-red medal-ribbon betokened, “That’s the Vic. C.,[3] Mrs. Jameson”: Purves, fresh from Oxford, with a budding moustache and a Balliol drawl, still self-conscious about his subaltern’s kit: Lodden, a fierce-looking black-moustached Major of Territorials, who appeared in a frightful rage about the world in general: and Pettigrew, a silent youngster, not in the least shy, who twinkled whenever one spoke to him. They ate; and they drank; and they talked; slowly, and except for Lodden, without any undue excitement. Said Lodden to Mrs. Mallory, stabbing furiously at his last morsel of fish: “But the thing’s a scandal. A positive scandal.” “What’s a scandal?” asked the Weasel from the opposite end of the table. “I was talking about the Foreign Office, Colonel. They tell me that cotton’s pouring into Germany, simply pouring in, through Holland.” “Oh, I thought you meant a really amusing scandal, Major,” put in Mrs. Armitage. “Plenty of that about in Brighton, if one looks for it,” scowled the Major. Everybody laughed: and Lodden, distinctly pleased with himself, attacked the next course. The Burgundy arrived: and with its outpouring, talk quickened. The two Colonels fell into an argument about who won the Grand Military Steeplechase in ’93; Mrs. Armitage, abandoning Bromley as hopeless, turned her attention to Pettigrew and Purves,—repartees snapping back and forwards between the three of them; Mrs. Mallory did her best to smooth another grievance of Lodden’s; Peter and Alice talked Devonshire, her county. Said Torrington to Patricia, “I hear your husband may be coming to us, Mrs. Jameson. If he does you must come down to Brighton and stay.”—_sotto voce_—“I’ll find you a horse to ride. It’s against regulations, of course. . . .” “How did you know about Peter?” smiled Patricia, looking her stateliest in black velvet. “I’m helping the Colonel in the office. Light duty, you know. He told me he meant to get your husband and that other chap, Bromley. The Colonel usually gets what he goes for.” He looked meaningly across at Alice, and added maliciously. “By the way, aren’t you Jacky Baynet’s sister?” “Yes.” “Jacky was devilish cut-up when the old man married Alice. . . .” Waiters brought in the champagne, three magnums.