And already he could see, foreshortened before him in a (should he venture?) prescient perspective, all that weary business of the _toilette_ regulated by a complicated, and never, before the day of departure, fully comprehended, system of gongs, and that winding circuitous descent down gradually broadening and more and more elaborately balustraded staircases to a long, but to Gaveston’s taste (he was a real _gourmand_) hopelessly agricultural (he could not conscientiously call it a dinner, but rather, a) meal.… However, he’ld have to go through with it now. He owed that to his mother. For it was by Lady Penhaligon’s request, cabled from Canterbury, Pa., a fortnight ago, that he had accepted Lord Jordan’s invitation (the fourth) to spend a frankly rather political week-end at Oylecombe Towers. Her wire had decided him. _Gav dear do go Jordans if they ask such old friends of dear Joey how cold here do wrap up well dear spring days so deceptive have you met boy called David Paunceford love Mums_ And with the compression of a skilled journalist he had answered. _Been Jonathan years kisses Gav_ And here he was.… * * * * * The charming _cloisonné_ clock in Gaveston’s dressing-room was busily preparing to strike eight. He gave a last glimpse in the cheval-glass at his elaborately pleated dress-shirt, in which gleamed three studs of solid amber, each with an embedded fly. In the further distances of Oylecombe Towers clanged a gong, and the young man went down to the great ancestor-hung hall with his usual good intention of being the life and soul of the party. Lord and Lady Jordan stepped forward to welcome their remarkable guest. His Lordship’s face was unfamiliar to Gaveston. A slightly older generation had known its fine, hawk-like features extremely well. He had long been conspicuous in the _entourage_ of the late King, but changed traditions at Court had latterly made the first holder of the Jordan Barony an almost unrecognized figure on the Mall. Nowadays, though his town-house was not a hundred miles from Park Lane, he lived in rural seclusion at the Towers, with occasional visits to the City of London itself. His knowledge of the world, however, remained wide. With the same facility and gestures he could talk of shells and bears, eagles and bulls, of Brazil and both the Bethlehems, while the motto SI VIS PACEM, entwined aposiopesically about his escutcheon, well exemplified his Liberal political instincts. Gaveston touched her ladyship’s hand with his lips.