she tackled me at once.

"'You must lunch to-morrow . . . Savoy . . . 1.15 . . . Meet Mr.
Ramage, Labour leader . . . Intensely interesting. . . .'

"You know how she talks, like a hen clucking. 'Coming, man. . . . Has
already arrived, in fact. . . . One must make friends with the mammon
of unrighteousness these days. . . . Life may depend on it. . . .
He's such a dear, too. . . . Certain he'll never let these dreadful
men kill me. . . . But I always give him the very best lunch I
can. . . . In case, you know. . . . Good-bye.'

"I feel that she will sort of put down each course on the credit side
of the ledger, and hope that, if the total proves sufficiently
imposing, she may escape with the loss of an arm when the crash comes.
She'll probably send the receipted bills to Ramage by special
messenger. . . . I'm rather interested to meet the man. Sir James was
particularly virulent over what he called the intellectuals. . . .

"Well, dear, I must go. Don't do too much and overtire
yourself. . . ." He strolled out of the smoking-room and posted the
letter. Then, refusing the offer of a passing taxi, he turned along
Pall Mall on his way to the Savoy.

As Vane had said in his letter, Nancy Smallwood had a new craze. She
passed from one to another with a bewildering rapidity which tried her
friends very highly. The last one of which Vane had any knowledge was
when she insisted on keeping a hen and feeding it with a special
preparation of her own to increase its laying capacity. This
necessitated it being kept in the drawing-room, as otherwise she forgot
all about it; and Vane had a vivid recollection of a large and
incredibly stout bird with a watery and furtive eye ensconced on
cushions near the piano.

But that was years ago, and now the mammon of unrighteousness, as she
called it, apparently held sway. He wondered idly as he walked along
what manner of man Ramage would prove to be. Everyone whom he had ever
met called down curses on the man's head, but as far as he could
remember he had never heard him described. Nor did he recollect ever
having seen a photograph of him. "Probably dressed in corduroy," he
reflected, "and eats peas with his knife. Damn clever thing to do too;
I mustn't forget to congratulate him if he does. . . ."

He turned in at the courtyard of the hotel, glancing round for Nancy
Smallwood. He saw her almost at once, looking a little worried.
Incidentally she always did