my tea, and though I'm sure Russians are wicked, I believe oppressed
Poles are as bad--at least their hair is as bushy and their nails as
long--and I prefer the embroidery I do myself; I do it quite nicely, I
think. And I don't consider that Celtic poets or Armenian Christians wash
their hands often enough.... They nearly all asked me the time last
Sunday. I was sorry about it."

"You feared they were finding their afternoon tedious?"

"No; but I think their watches were up the spout, you see. So I was
sorry. I never feel so sorry for myself as when mine is. I'm really
awfully grateful to Leslie; if it wasn't for him I should never be able
to tell anyone the time. By the way, Leslie's awfully fond of Felicity.
He writes her enormous cheques for her clubs and vagabonds and so on. But
of course she'll never look at him; he's much too well-off. It's not low
to tell you that, because he makes it so awfully obvious. He'll probably
be there this afternoon. Oh, here we are."

They found the Hopes' small drawing-room filled much as Peter had
predicted. Dermot Hope was a tall, wasted-looking man of fifty-five, with
brilliant eyes giving significance to a vague face. He had very little
money, and spent that little on "Progress," whose readers were few and
ardent, and whose contributors were very cosmopolitan, and full of zeal
and fire; several of them were here this afternoon. Dermot Hope himself
was most unconquerably full of fire. He could be delightful, and
exceedingly disagreeable, full of genial sympathy and appreciation, and
of a biting irony. He looked at Urquhart, whom he met for the first time,
with a touch of sarcasm in his smile. He said, "You're exactly like your
father. How do you do," and seemed to take no further interest in him.
He had certainly never taken much in Lord Hugh, during the brief year of