Two or three friends! Lining the wide staircase, dotting the handsome landing, crowding the numerous guest-rooms, there they were; a mob of them. Women in the costly and fantastic toilettes of the present day; men bowing and bending with their evening manners on. Mr. Ollivera resented the crowd as a personal wrong. "'Two or three friends,' you wrote me word, Bede," he reproachfully said, seeing his cousin in a corner near the entrance-door. "You know I do not like these things and never go to them." "On my word, Henry, I did not know it was going to be this cram," returned Bede Greatorex. "I thought we might be twenty, perhaps, all told." "How can you put up with this? Is it _seemly_, Bede--in this once staid and pattern house?" "Seemly?" repeated Bede Greatorex. "Forgive me, Bede. I was thinking of the dear old times under your mother's rule. The happy evenings, all hospitality and cheerfulness; the chapter read at bedtime, when the small knot of guests had departed. _Friends_ were entertained then; but I don't know what you call these." Perhaps Bede Greatorex had never, amid all his provocations, felt so tempted to avow the truth as now--that he abhorred it with his whole heart and soul. Henry William Ollivera could not hate and despise it more than he. As to the good old days of sunshine and peace thus recalled, a groan well nigh burst from him, at their recollection. It was indeed a contrast, then and now: in more things than this. The world bore a new aspect for Bede Greatorex, and not a happier one. "Is Kene here, Bede?" "Not yet. What is it that you want with him?" Mr. Ollivera gave a brief outline of the case; Bede left him in the middle of it to welcome fresh arrivals. Something awfully fine loomed up, in pink silk and lace, and blazing emeralds. It was Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Her chignon was a mile high, and her gown was below her shoulder-blades. The modest young clergyman turned away at the sight, his cheeks flushing a dusky red. Not in this kind of society of late years, the curiosities of fashionable attire were new to him. "Is Bede mad?" he inwardly said, "or has he lost all control over his wife's actions?" Somebody else, not used to society, was staring on with all the eyes of wonder he possessed. And that was Roland Yorke. Leaning against the wall in a new suit of dress-clothes, with a huge pair of white gloves on that would have been quite the proper thing at Port Natal, stood Roland. Mr. Ollivera, trying to get away from everybody, ran against him. The two were great friends now, and Roland was in the habit of running up to Mr. Ollivera's drawing-room at will. "I say," began Roland, "this is rather strong, is it not?" "Do you mean the crowd?" "I mean everything. Some of the girls and women look as if they had forgotten to put their gowns on. Why do they dress in this way?" "Because they fancy it's the fashion, I suppose," replied Mr. Ollivera, drawing down the corners of his thin lips.