CHAPTER III

The Earl of Emsworth stood in the doorway of the Senior
Conservative Club's vast diningroom, and beamed with a vague
sweetness on the two hundred or so Senior Conservatives who, with
much clattering of knives and forks, were keeping body and soul
together by means of the coffee-room luncheon. He might have been
posing for a statue of Amiability. His pale blue eyes shone with
a friendly light through their protecting glasses; the smile of a
man at peace with all men curved his weak mouth; his bald head,
reflecting the sunlight, seemed almost to wear a halo.

Nobody appeared to notice him. He so seldom came to London these
days that he was practically a stranger in the club; and in any
case your Senior Conservative, when at lunch, has little leisure
for observing anything not immediately on the table in front of
him. To attract attention in the dining-room of the Senior
Conservative Club between the hours of one and two-thirty, you
have to be a mutton chop--not an earl.

It is possible that, lacking the initiative to make his way down
the long aisle and find a table for himself, he might have stood
there indefinitely, but for the restless activity of Adams, the
head steward. It was Adams' mission in life to flit to and fro,
hauling would-be lunchers to their destinations, as a St. Bernard
dog hauls travelers out of Alpine snowdrifts. He sighted Lord
Emsworth and secured him with a genteel pounce.