He was short, not more than five foot seven, but so compactly built that he did not give the impression of low stature. Everything about him was dapper, though not obtrusively so; his clothes, the flower in his coat, his well-brushed hair and moustache. His eyes, light grey with pinkish rims, had a hot impertinent look, his underlip jutted out and there were clearly defined spots of local colour over his cheek-bones. He came briskly into the room, bestowed a restless kiss upon his niece and confronted his wife.

“Who’s dinin’?” he said.

“Ourselves, Félicité, Carlisle, of course, and Edward Manx. And I have asked Miss Henderson to join us to-night.”

“Two more,” said Lord Pastern. “I’ve asked Bellairs and Rivera.”

“That is quite impossible, George,” said Lady Pastern, calmly.

“Why?”

“Apart from other unanswerable considerations, there is not enough food for two extra guests.”

“Tell ’em to open a tin.”

“I cannot receive these persons for dinner.”

Lord Pastern grinned savagely. “All right. Rivera can take Félicité to a restaurant and Bellairs can come here. Same number as before. How are you, Lisle?”

“I’m very well, Uncle George.”

“Félicité will not dine out with this individual, George. I shall not permit it.”

“You can’t stop ’em.”

“Félicité will respect my wishes.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Lord Pastern. “You’re thirty years behind the times, m’dear. Give a gel her head and she’ll find her feet.” He paused, evidently delighted with this aphorism. “Way you’re goin’, you’ll have an elopement on your hands. Comes to that, I don’t see the objection.”

“Are you demented, George?”

“Half the women in London’d give anything to be in Fee’s boots.”