“You are all old-fashioned--and stiff with prejudice,” Furley declared. “Even Orden,” he went on, turning to Catherine, “only tolerates me because we ate dinners off the same board when we were both making up our minds to be Lord High Chancellor.” “Our friend Furley,” Julian confided, as he leaned across the table and took a cigarette, “has no tact and many prejudices. He does write such rubbish about the aristocracy. I remember an article of his not very long ago, entitled ‘Out with our Peers!’ It’s all very well for a younger son like me to take it lying down, but you could scarcely expect my father to approve. Besides, I believe the fellow’s a renegade. I have an idea that he was born in the narrower circles himself.” “That’s where you’re wrong, then,” Furley grunted with satisfaction. “My father was a boot manufacturer in a country village of Leicestershire. I went in for the Bar because he left me pots of money, most of which, by the bye, I seem to have dissipated.” “Chiefly in Utopian schemes for the betterment of his betters,” Julian observed drily. “I certainly had an idea,” Furley confessed, “of an asylum for incapable younger sons.” “I call a truce,” Julian proposed. “It isn’t polite to spar before Miss Abbeway.” “To me,” Mr. Stenson declared, “this is a veritable temple of peace. I arrived here literally on all fours. Miss Abbeway has proved to me quite conclusively that as a democratic leader I have missed my vocation.” She looked at him reproachfully. Nevertheless, his words seemed to have brought back to her mind the thrill of their brief but stimulating conversation. A flash of genuine earnestness transformed her face, just as a gleam of wintry sunshine, which had found its way in through the open window, seemed to discover threads of gold in her tightly braided and luxuriant brown hair. Her eyes filled with an almost inspired light: