� some reshuffling of dictatorships, an amalgamation of subsidiary companies, or an issue of new stocks; sometimes some exhausted and resentful celebrity whom the Beast had adopted sat on Lord Copper's right hand as the guest of honour, and there, on this particular evening, at half-past eight, sat Mr. Theodore Boot; he had tucked up his coattails behind him, spread his napkin across his knees and, unlike any of Lord Copper's guests of honour before or since, was settling down to enjoy himself. "Don't think I've ever been to this place before," he began. "No," said Lord Copper. "No, I suppose not. It is, I believe, the best place of its kind." "Since my time," said Uncle Theodore tolerantly. "New places always springin' up. Other places closing down. The old order changeth, eh?" "Yes," said Lord Copper coldly. It was not thus that he was accustomed to converse with junior reporters, however promising. There was a type, Lord Copper had learned, who became presumptuous under encouragement. Uncle Theodore, it was true, did not seem to belong to this type; it was hard to know exactly what type Uncle Theodore did belong to. Lord Copper turned away rather petulantly and engaged his other neighbour � a forgotten and impoverished ex-Viceroy who for want of other invitations spent three or four evenings a week at dinners of this kind � but his mind was not in the conversation; it was disturbed. It had been disturbed all the evening, ever since, sharp on time, he had made his entrance to the inner reception room where the distinguished guests were segregated. Uncle Theodore had been standing there between Mr. Salter and the Managing Editor. He wore a tail coat of obsolete cut, a black waistcoat, and a very tall collar; his purplish patrician face had beamed on Lord Copper, but there had been no answering cordiality in Lord Copper's greeting. Boot was a surprise. Images were not easily formed or retained in Lord Copper's mind but he had quite a clear image of Boot and Uncle Theodore did not conform to it. Was this Mrs. Stitch's prot�? Was this the youngest K.C.B.? Had Lady Cockpurse commended this man's style? And � it gradually came back to him � was this the man he had himself met not two months back, and speeded on his trip to Ishmaelia? Lord Copper took another look and encountered a smile so urbane, so patronizing, so intolerably knowing, that he hastily turned away. Someone had blundered. Lord Copper turned to the secretary who stood, with the toastmaster, behind his chair. "Wagstaff." "Yes, Lord Copper." "Take a memo for tomorrow. 'See Salter.'" "Very good, Lord Copper." The banquet must go on, thought Lord Copper.
The banquet went on. The general hum of conversation was becoming louder. It was a note dear to Lord Copper as the tongue of hounds in covert. He tried to close his mind to the enigmatic and, he was inclined to suspect, obnoxious presence on his right. He heard the unctuous voice rising and falling, breaking now and then into a throaty chuckle. Uncle Theodore, after touching infelicitously on a variety of topics, had found common ground with the distinguished guest on his right; they had both, in another age, known a man named Bertie Booth-Bryce. Uncle Theodore enjoyed his recollection and he enjoyed his champagne, but politeness at last compelled him reluctantly to address Lord Copper, a dull dog, but his host. He leant nearer to him and spoke in a confidential manner. "Tell me," he asked, "where does one go on to, nowadays?" "I beg your pardon." Uncle Theodore leered. "You know. To round off the evening?" "Personally," said Lord Copper, "I intend to go to bed without any delay." "Exactly. Where's the place, nowadays?" Lord Copper turned to his secretary. "Wagstaff." "Yes, Lord Copper." "Memo for tomorrow. 'Sack Salter.'" "Very good, Lord Copper."
Only once did Uncle Theodore again tackle his host. He advised him to eat mustard with duck for the good of his liver. Lord Copper seemed not to hear. He sat back in his chair, surveying the room � for the evening his room. The banquet must go on. At the four long tables which ran at right angles to his own the faces above the white shirt-fronts were growing redder; the chorus of male conversation swelled in volume. Lord Copper began to see himself in a new light, as the deserted leader, shouldering alone the great burden of Duty. The thought comforted him. He had made a study of the lives of other great men; loneliness was the price they had all paid. None, he reflected, had enjoyed the devotion they deserved; there was Caesar and Brutus, Napoleon and Josephine, Shakespeare and