So they talk, except for two or three that drop off to
directors' meetings; till the afternoon fades and darkens
into evening, and the noiseless Chinese philosophers turn
on soft lights here and there among the palm trees.
Presently they dine at white tables glittering with cut
glass and green and yellow Rhine wines; and after dinner
they sit again among the palm-trees, half-hidden in the
blue smoke, still talking of the tariff and the labour
class and trying to wash away the memory and the sadness
of it in floods of mineral waters. So the evening passes
into night, and one by one the great motors come throbbing
to the door, and the Mausoleum Club empties and darkens
till the last member is borne away and the Arcadian day
ends in well-earned repose.

* * * * * * *

"I want you to give me your opinion very, very frankly,"
said Mr. Lucullus Fyshe on one side of the luncheon table
to the Rev. Fareforth Furlong on the other.

"By all means," said Mr. Furlong.

Mr. Fyshe poured out a wineglassful of soda and handed
it to the rector to drink.

"Now tell me very truthfully," he said, "is there too
much carbon in it?"

"By no means," said Mr. Furlong.