"And the woman on the other side of him?" she asked. "By the way, she has
a red face, too."

"So she has," he replied amusedly. "That is Mrs. Littleton Pryor, the
greatest living rebuke to the modern woman. Most of those jewels are
inherited, but she has accustomed herself by long practice to carry them,
as well as other burdens. She has eight children, and she's on every
charity list. Her ancestors were the very roots of Manhattan. She looks
like a Holbein--doesn't she?"

"And the extraordinary looking man on my right?" Honora asked. "I've got
to talk to him presently."

"Chiltern!" he said. "Is it possible you haven't heard something about
Hugh Chiltern?"

"Is it such lamentable ignorance?" she asked.

"That depends upon one's point of view," he replied. "He's always been a
sort of a--well, Viking," said Farwell.

Honora was struck by the appropriateness of the word.

"Viking--yes, he looks it exactly. I couldn't think. Tell me something
about him."

"Well," he laughed, lowering his voice a little, here goes for a little
rough and ready editing. One thing about Chiltern that's to be admired is
that he's never cared a rap what people think. Of course, in a way, he