So they did, and it was stiff and formal beyond even his expectation. The
dinner was interminably long, over-elaborate, and slowly served. They
were all sent in with the wrong people. The conversation all but died
again and again. Sir Robert was afflicted by a deaf man, who shrieked,
"Ha-ow?" and "What say?" at him with brief intervals all during the meal.
Mabel shrank into herself, and only ventured on a few trite remarks. Mr.
Ketchum's liveliness utterly evaporated after the first ten minutes. It
was quite ghastly, and the move back to the drawing-room was a most
blessed relief. Mrs. Sykes had made no effort to lighten the tedium of the
dinner, and no sooner found it at an end than she lolled back
indifferently on the sofa, and, picking up a book, coolly read it for more
than an hour, though twice interrupted by Mrs. Richardson, who vainly
tried to substitute polite conversation the first time, and offered a cup
of tea the second.

"English breakfast?" asked Mrs. Sykes loftily, raising her eyes for a
moment. "No; I am afraid not. It is green tea, I think."

"But do take some," replied Mrs. Richardson, "It is very nice indeed."

"No, thank you," said Mrs. Sykes very shortly, her eyes on her book.

"Just one cup. Let me make it for you?" suggested Mrs. Richardson.

"Not for a five-pound note would I drink the poisonous stuff. Say no more
about it," replied Mrs. Sykes, with delicate consideration, and turned
over a page.

"Do take some coffee, then, or chocolate," insisted Mrs. Richardson.