The party thus complete, Borkins gravely withdrew,
and some fifteen minutes later the great gong in the hallway clanged
out its summons. They streamed into the dining room, Doctor Bartholomew
upon Tony West's fat little arm; Fordyce and Lefroy, side by side, hands
in pockets and closely cropped heads nodding vigorously; Merriton and
Lester Stark sauntering one slightly behind the other, and exchanging
pleasantries as they went; and just in front of them, Dacre Wynne,
solitary, huge, sinister, and overbearing.
Wynne sat in the seat of honour on Merriton's right. The rest sorted
themselves out as they wished, and made a good deal of noise and fun
about it, too. Down the length of the long, exquisitely decorated table
Merriton looked at his guests and thought it wasn't going to be so dismal
after all.
Champagne ran like water and spirits ran high. They joyfully toasted
Wynne, and later on the news that Merriton imparted to them. In vain
Dacre Wynne's low spirits were apparent. He must get over his grouch,
that was all.
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