Lunch was in the great dining-room. There was a big table and two smaller ones; we sat down anyhow, but the first comers had grouped themselves about Lady Ladislaw and Evesham and Justin and Mary in a central orb, and I had to drift perforce to one of the satellites. I secured a seat whence I could get a glimpse ever and again over Justin's assiduous shoulders of a delicate profile, and I found myself immediately engaged in answering the innumerable impossible questions of Lady Viping, the widow of terrible old Sir Joshua, that devastating divorce court judge who didn't believe in divorces. His domestic confidences had I think corrupted her mind altogether. She cared for nothing but evidence. She was a rustling, incessant, sandy, peering woman with a lorgnette and rapid, confidential lisping undertones, and she wanted to know who everybody was and how they were related. This kept us turning towards the other tables--and when my information failed she would call upon Sir Godfrey Klavier, who was explaining, rather testily on account of her interruptions, to Philip Christian and a little lady in black and the elder Fawney girl just why he didn't believe Lady Ladislaw's new golf course would succeed. There were two or three other casual people at our table; one of the Roden girls, a young guardsman and, I think, some other man whom I don't clearly remember. "And so that's the great Mr. Justin," rustled Lady Viping and stared across me. (I saw Evesham, leaning rather over the table to point some remark at Mary, and noted her lips part to reply.) "What _is_ the word?" insisted Lady Viping like a fly in my ear. I turned on her guiltily. "Whether it's brachy," said Lady Viping, "or whether it's dolly--_I_ can never remember?" I guessed she was talking of Justin's head. "Oh!--brachycephalic," I said. I had lost Mary's answer. "They say he's a woman hater," said Lady Viping. "It hardly looks like it now, does it?" "Who?" I asked. "What?--oh!--Justin." "The great financial cannibal. Suppose she turned him into a philanthropist! Stranger things have happened. Look!--now. The man's face is positively tender." I hated looking, and I could not help but look. It was as if this detestable old woman was dragging me down and down, down far below all dignity to her own level of a peeping observer. Justin was saying something to Mary in an undertone, something that made her glance up swiftly and at me before she answered, and there I was with my head side by side with those quivering dyed curls, that flighty black bonnet, that remorseless observant lorgnette. I could have sworn aloud at the hopeless indignity of my pose. I saw Mary color quickly before I looked away.