It sped to
Winlow's flight--to Andrew Grant's articles in the 'Parthenon'--to the
caricature of Harbinger in the 'Cackler', inscribed 'The New Tory. Lord
H-rb-ng-r brings Social Reform beneath the notice of his friends,'
which depicted him introducing a naked baby to a number of coroneted old
ladies. Thence to a dancer. Thence to the Bill for Universal Assurance.
Then back to the war scare; to the last book of a great French writer;
and once more to Winlow's flight. It was all straightforward and
outspoken, each seeming to say exactly what came into the head. For all
that, there was a curious avoidance of the spiritual significances of
these things; or was it perhaps that such significances were not seen?
Lord Dennis, at the far end of the room, studying a portfolio of
engravings, felt a touch on his cheek; and conscious of a certain
fragrance, said without turning his head:
"Nice things, these, Babs!"
Receiving no answer he looked up.
There indeed stood Barbara.
"I do hate sneering behind people's backs!"
There had always been good comradeship between these two, since the days
when Barbara, a golden-haired child, astride of a grey pony, had been
his morning companion in the Row all through the season. His riding days
were past; he had now no outdoor pursuit save fishing, which he followed
with the ironic persistence of a self-contained, high-spirited nature,
which refuses to admit that the mysterious finger of old age is laid
across it.
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