shore.'

'I see faces that I know. There is that tall handsome girl, Miss
Markham, with real gold hair, next Mr. Logan. We used to call her the
Venus of Milo, or Milo for short, at St. Ursula's. She has mantles and
things tried on her at Madame Claudine's, and stumpy purchasers argue
from the effect (neglecting the cause) that the things will suit _them_.
Her people were ruined by Australian gold mines. And there is Miss
Martin, who does stories for the penny story papers at a shilling the
thousand words. The fathers have backed horses, and the children's teeth
are set on edge. Is it a Neo-Christian dinner? We are all so poor. You
have sought us in the highways and hedges.'

'Where the wild roses grow,' said Merton.

'I don't know many of the men, though I see faces that one used to see in
the High. There is Mr. Yorker, the athletic man. What is he doing now?'

'He is sub-vice-secretary of a cricket club. His income depends on his
bat and his curl from leg. But he has a rich aunt.'

'Cricket does not lead to much, any more than my ability to read the
worst handwritings of the darkest ages. Who is the man that the
beautiful lady opposite is making laugh so?' asked Miss Willoughby,
without moving her lips.

Merton wrote 'Bulstrode of Trinity' on the back of the menu.

'What does _he_ do?'