negligently. "She'll be home soon."

Something infinitesimally malicious in the voice and gaze sent the
singular idea shooting through his mind that Queen had gone out on
purpose so that Concepcion might have him alone for a while. And he
was wary of both of them, as he might have been of two pagan goddesses
whom he, a poor defiant mortal, suspected of having laid an eye on him
for their own ends.

"_You've_ changed, anyhow," said Concepcion.

"Older?"

"No. Harder."

He was startled, not displeased.

"How--harder?"

"More sure of yourself," said Concepcion, with a trace of the old
harsh egotism in her tone. "It appears you're a perfect tyrant on the
Lechford Committee now you're vice-chairman, and all the more footling
members dread the days when you're in the chair. It appears also
that you've really overthrown two chairmen, and yet won't take the
situation yourself."

He was still more startled, but now positively flattered by the
world's estimate of his activities and individuality. He saw himself
in a new light.

"This what you were talking about until five a.m.?"

The butler entered.

"Shall I serve tea, Madam?"

Concepcion looked at the man scornfully:

"Yes."

One of the minor stalwarts entered and arranged a table, and the other
followed with a glittering, steaming tray in his hands, while
the butler hovered like a winged hippopotamus over the operation.
Concepcion half sat down by the table, and then, altering her mind,
dropped on to a vast chaise-longue, as wide as a bed, and covered with
as many cushions as would have stocked a cushion shop, which occupied
the principal place in front of the hearth. The hem of her rich
gown just touched the floor. G.J. could see that she was wearing the
transparent deep-purple stockings that Queen wore with the transparent
lavender gown. Her right shoulder rose high from the mass of the body,
and her head was sunk between two cushions. Her voice came smothered
from the cushions:

"Damn it! G.J. Don't look at me like that."

He was standing near the mantelpiece.

"Why?" he exclaimed. "What's the matter, Con?"

There was no answer. He lit a cigarette. The ebullient kettle kept
lifting its lid in growing impatience. But Concepcion seemed to have
forgotten the tea. G.J. had a thought, distinct like a bubble on a sea
of thoughts, that if the tea was already made, as no doubt it was, it
would soon be stewed. Concepcion said:

"The matter is that I'm a r