It was so plainly a man's house, so
clearly a place of tradition, that her pert modern speech seemed for one
moment a fatuity.
It was an off-day for the shooters, and so for a miracle there were men
in the drawing-room at tea-time. The hostess for the time was an aunt
of Lewis's, a certain Mrs. Alderson, whose husband (the famous big-game
hunter) had but recently returned from the jaws of a Zambesi lion.
George's sister, Lady Clanroyden, a tall, handsome girl in a white
frock, was arranging flowers in a bowl, and on the sill of the open
window two men were basking in the sun. From the inner drawing-room
there came an echo of voices and laughter. The whole scene was sunny
and cheerful, youth and age, gay frocks and pleasant faces amid the old
tapestry and mahogany of a moorland house.
Mr. Andrews sat down solemnly to talk of the weather with the two men,
who found him a little dismal. One--he of the Zambesi lion episode--was
grizzled, phlegmatic, and patient, and in no way critical of his
company. So soon he was embarked on extracts from his own experience to
which Mr. Andrews, who had shares in some company in the neighbourhood,
listened with flattering attention. Mrs. Alderson set herself to
entertain Mr. Wishart, and being a kindly, simple person, found the
task easy. They were soon engaged in an earnest discussion of
unsectarian charities.
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