The splendour of her shoulders, her frizzy hair (clearly not two hours out of the barber's hands), might have made him doubtful; but the frank shrewdness in her eyes, and her carefully clipped tone of voice, were guarantees that she was part of the element at the table which was really quite respectable. He had never realised before how “smart” she was, and with an effort abandoned himself to a sort of gaiety that would have killed a Frenchman. And when she left him, he reflected upon the expression of her eyes when they rested on a lady opposite, who was a true bird-of-prey. “What is it,” their envious, inquisitive glance had seemed to say, “that makes you so really 'smart'.” And while still seeking for the reason, he noticed his host pointing out the merits of his port to the hawk-like man, with a deferential air quite pitiful to see, for the hawk-like man was clearly a “bad hat.” What in the name of goodness did these staid bourgeois mean by making up to vice? Was it a craving to be thought distinguished, a dread of being dull, or merely an effect of overfeeding? Again he looked at his host, who had not yet enumerated all the virtues of his port, and again felt sorry for him. “So you're going to marry Antonia Dennant?” said a voice on his right, with that easy coarseness which is a mark of caste. “Pretty girl! They've a nice place, the, Dennants. D' ye know, you're a lucky feller!” The speaker was an old baronet, with small eyes, a dusky, ruddy face, and peculiar hail-fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly. He was always hard up, but being a man of enterprise knew all the best people, as well as all the worst, so that he dined out every night. “You're a lucky feller,” he repeated; “he's got some deuced good shootin', Dennant! They come too high for me, though; never touched a feather last time I shot there. She's a pretty girl. You 're a lucky feller!” “I know that,” said Shelton humbly. “Wish I were in your shoes. Who was that sittin' on the other side of you? I'm so dashed short-sighted. Mrs. Carruther? Oh, ay!” An expression which, if he had not been a baronet, would have been a leer, came on his lips. Shelton felt that he was referring to the leaf in his mental pocket-book covered with the anecdotes, figures, and facts about that lady. “The old ogre means,” thought he, “that I'm lucky because his leaf is blank about Antonia.” But the old baronet had turned, with his smile, and his sardonic, well-bred air, to listen to a bit of scandal on the other side. The two men to Shelton's left were talking. “What! You don't collect anything? How's that? Everybody collects something. I should be lost without my pictures.” “No, I don't collect anything. Given it up; I was too awfully had over my Walkers.”