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Gilbert Bromhead's wife was southern, a small appealing compound of the essence of the superlatively feminine. Lee Randon, in a chair drawn up for him at the table, studied the women, arbitrarily thrown together, with a secret entertainment. Evadore Wager was frankly to a degree almost Chinese curious about the others.

Only Peyton had been of any athletic importance; he had played university foot-ball; and, in view of this, there was still a tinge of respect in Bromhead's manner. A long run of Peyton's, crowned with a glorious and winning score, was recalled. But suddenly it failed to stir him. "How young we were then," he observed gloomily. Christian Wager protested. "That isn't the right tone.

In fact, Jim Silver had been Silver Mug when Albert was still a ragged little urchin asking for cigarette pictures from passing toffs outside Brighton Railway Station. A Lower Boy at Eton had originated the name. It was apt, and it stuck. Jim Silver in Bromhead's was hugely rich, and he had a great, ugly, honest face. Friends and enemies called him by the name; and he had a good few of both.

Gilbert Bromhead's wife hesitated; then, confidentially, she told Lee that she adored to sit on stairs. "Very well," he assented; "these of the Morrises' are splendid." He was a step below her, and her knees and his shoulder settled together. "I like older men so much," she admitted what she had already so adroitly conveyed; "patches of grey above the ears are so distinguished."