Mrs. Winstanley's little dinner went off smoothly and pleasantly, as all such entertainments had done under the new _regime_. The Captain knew how to select his guests, as well as he knew how to compose a _menu_. People felt pleased with themselves and with their neighbours at his table. There was nothing heavy in the dinner or in the conversation; there were no long sittings over old port or particular claret. The wines were of the first quality; but there was no fuss made about them. Colonel Carteret remembered how he and the Squire had sat prosing over their port or Chateau Lafitte, and felt as if he were living in a new world--a world in which full-blooded friendship and boisterous hospitality were out of fashion. People whose talk had hitherto been intensely local--confined, for the most part to petty sessions, commoners' rights, hunting, and the parish church and schools--found themselves discussing the widest range of topics, from the prospect of a European war--that European war which has been impending more or less distinctly for the last twenty years--to the latest social scandal in the upper currents of London society. Captain and Mrs. Winstanley's country friends, inspired by one or two clever young men just imported from the London clubs, were surprised to discover how well they were able to criticise the latest productions in literature, art, and the drama; the newest results of scientific investigation; or the last record of African or Central Asian exploration. It was quite delightful to quiet country people, who went to London on an average once in three years, to find themselves talking so easily about the last famous picture, the latest action for libel in artistic circles, or the promised adaptation of Sardou's last comedy at a West End theatre, just as glibly as if they knew all about art, and had read every play of Sardou's. Roderick Vawdrey enjoyed himself wonderfully at this particular dinner-party, so long as the dinner lasted; for Captain Winstanley, by an oversight which made him inwardly savage all dinner-time, had placed Mr. Vawdrey and Miss Tempest side by side. There had been some confusion in his mind as he finished his plan of the table; his attention having been called away at the last moment, or this thing could not have happened--for nothing was farther from Captain Winstanley's intention than that Violet and her old playfellow should be happy in each other's society. And there they sat, smiling and sparkling at each other in the exuberance of youth and high spirits, interchanging little confidential remarks that were doubtless to the disparagement of some person or persons in the assembly. If dark electric glances shot from the covert of bent brows could have slain those two happy triflers, assuredly neither of them would have lived to the end of that dinner. "How do you like him?" asked Rorie, stooping to sniff at the big Marechal Niel bud, in the specimen glass by his plate. "Whom?"