A few days after, Dick Danford was at his master’s house; he walked nimbly through the hall and reached the Roman bath Lionel had now constructed for his use. He had started the fashion of receiving his friends at the late hour of the afternoon, five o’clock, in what the Romans called the Frigidarium. Those who wished to bathe could do so in the marble swimming-bath cut out in the centre of the hall, others who only came to converse sat in the recess carved into the surrounding wall, or stood against the pilasters which divided the recesses. There, for an hour or two, they discussed past doings, foreshadowed events; wit was acclaimed, philosophy commended. As Dan entered he viewed a gay scene: Lionel just stepping out of the bath, meeting his valet, Temple, ready to friction his body with the strigil—a sort of flesh brush—others, like George Murray the novelist, and Ronald Sinclair the art critic, sitting in recesses; whilst many of the Upper Ten and the artistic world splashed and dived in the piscina. “Here comes Dan!” proclaimed Lionel. “What news since I last saw you? I have missed you much these two days; but I daresay your business was pressing.” “Hail, Danford! the surest, safest, most comforting of all guides! While we sip our tea tell us the town news.” This was Tom Hornsby, reclining in one of the recesses. The splashing ceased, they one after another grouped themselves—some in the niches, the rest lying down, whilst Danford, standing against a pilaster, surveyed with intense satisfaction this picture of _recherché_ cleanliness, and inhaled the fragrance of exquisite perfumes. “Plenty of news, gentlemen. First of all, the Bishop of Sunbury—” “Oh! my old prelate of the Islington Tournament? Excuse me, Dan, for interrupting you.” “Yes, my lord, the very same—has decided to preach a sermon at St Paul’s on the new Society he is organising.” “What is that, Dick?” “It is a profound secret, my lord,” answered Dick as he bowed courteously. “Well, mind you tell me when it comes off,” said Lionel. “Still no news of the war, Danford?” broke in Lord Mowbray, the amateur mimic. “How can there be when we receive no letters. Perhaps the War Office has important wires from the seat of war, although it has not communicated them to the public. But it is strange how little the war has affected Society; the heavy blows that have fallen on nearly everyone in your circles have arrived very much softened by distance; and it seems really as if the whole tragedy were being acted in some other planet. Besides which, has not college and home life taught well-bred people to bear with fortitude all mishaps and sorrow? Civilisation is a thick ice which covers the current rushing beneath it; you must wait for a crack on the surface, to be able to notice which way runs the stream.” “I suppose you would consider the London storm a crack on the surface, would you?” ironically inquired Sinclair, lighting a cigarette.