Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has
not yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these
two; and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational
attitude, belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in
some ways--a period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an
age of slums wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--
mental, literary, and theological.

Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee.
His back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not
his own, nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own.
His face was eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society
smile with the best of them. There was not a young man in the room
of whom he was afraid, conversationally.

"No, Lady Cantourne," he repeated. "Your charming niece is
heartless. She will get on."

Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and
motherly right arm.

"She will get on," she admitted. "As to the other, it is early to
give an opinion."

"She has had the best of trainings--," he murmured. And Lady
Cantourne turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles.

"For which?" she asked.