.

"Ah, Shelton! Back? Somebody told me you were goin' round the world."
He scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. "Clear soup! . . . Read
Jellaby's speech? Amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. Best
man in the House, he really is."

Shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been in
the habit of admiring Jellaby, but now he wondered why. The red and
shaven face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollen
by good humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixed
introspectively on the successful process of his eating.

"Success!" thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened--"success is what we
admire in Jellaby. We all want success . . . . Yes," he admitted, "a
successful beast."

"Oh!" said his neighbour, "I forgot. You're in the other camp?"

"Not particularly. Where did you get that idea?"

His neighbour looked round negligently.

"Oh," said he, "I somehow thought so"; and Shelton almost heard him
adding, "There's something not quite sound about you."

"Why do you admire Jellaby?" he asked.

"Knows his own mind," replied his neighbour; "it 's more than the others
do . . . . This whitebait is n't fit for cats! Clever fellow, Jellaby!
No nonsense about him! Have you ever heard him speak? Awful good sport
to watch him sittin' on the Opposition. A poor lot they are!" and
he laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a small
minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass.

"Minorities are always depressing," said Shelton dryly.

"Eh? what?"

"I mean," said Shelton, "it's irritating to look at people who have n't
a chance of success--fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and
all that."

His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively.

"Er--yes, quite," said he; "don't you take mint sauce? It's the best
part of lamb, I always think."

The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every
man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to
regain its influence on Shelton. How many times had he not sat there,
carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was
used to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who
was not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole
over him. Happy! That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his
stall.

"Look at poor little Bing puffin' about," said his neighbour, pointing
to a weazened, hunchy waiter.