"particular." Over this one he said practically
nothing. So she toiled, and made a success of it.

The drawing-room looked charming, and she herself in black over white,
with her pearls, the most charming thing in it. It wanted a week of
Lancelot's day for school; he was to come in to dessert--that was
understood. But the possible danger of a thirteenth was removed by
their being two tables of six each. James had suddenly ordered this
variation of practice--he did not say why--and so it was to be.
Crewdson, the invaluable butler-valet of the house, who presided over
a zenana of maids, and seemed to carry his whiskers into the fray like
an oriflamme, was visibly perturbed at this new notion. "Mr. Macartney
has his reason, we know. But how is one gentleman's servant to split
himself in halves? And where does he stand, Mrs. Jenkins? With tables
dotted about--like a cafe--or an archumpelygo?" He knew that it was
done in the highest places, but he knew his own place best. "We are
not what you call the smart set," he said. "We are not Park Lane or
Brook Street. But we are solid--the professions--the land and the
church. No jinks in this house. And small tables is jinks. Not a
dinner, but a kick-up." So Crewdson thought, and so he looked, but his
master was flint.

Mabel came the first, the lively and successful Mabel, two years
younger than Lucy--she and Laurence: he was Laurence Corbet, Esq., of
Peltry Park, Wavertree, and Roehampton, S.W., a hunting man and
retired soldier, as neatly groomed as a man may be. He was jolly, and
adored his Mabel. He was county, and approved by James. Lucy used to
say of him that his smile could cure a toothache. Lancelot pounced
upon the pair instantly and retired with them to the conservatory to
show off his orange-tree, whose pip had been plunged on his first
birthday. But before long a suspicious sliding of the feet and a shout
from Corbet of "Goal!" betrayed the orange-tree's eclipse.

Next plunged Miss Bacchus, with her front hair and front teeth, and
air of digging you in the ribs. She explained that she made a point of
being early lest she should be taken for an actress, and forestalled
Macartney's assurance that she never would be--which annoyed him. The
Worthingtons--she like an autumn flower-bed, and he pale and
sleek--and Francis Lingen came in together: Lingen, a very elegant,
pale pink and frail young man with a straw-coloured moustache, who
bowed when he shook your hand as if