He  was  a  style.  I  was  freshly  struck  with  it  as,  in  the
salle-d-manger  of  the  little  Swiss  inn,  we  resigned  our
selves  to  inevitable  veal.  Confronted  with  his  high
form — I  must  parenthesise  that  it  wasn't  confronted
much — Clare  Vawdrey's  talk  suggested  the  reporter
contrasted  with  the  bard.  It  was  interesting  to  watch
the  shock  of  characters  from  which  of  an  evening  so
much  would  be  expected.  There  was,  however,  no
concussion — it  was  all  muffled  and  minimised  in  Lord
Mellifont's  tact.  It  was  rudimentary  with  him  to  find
the  solution  of  such  a  problem  in  playing  the  host,
assuming  responsibilities  that  carried  with  them  their
sacrifice.  He  had  indeed  never  been  a  guest  in  his  life  ;
he  was  the  host,  the  patron,  the  moderator  at  every
board.  If  there  was  a  defect  in  his  manner — and  I
suggest  this  under  my  breath — it  was  that  he  had  a
little  more  art  than  any  conjunction,  even  the  most
complicated,  could  possibly  require.  At  any  rate  one
made  one's  reflexions  in  noticing  how  the  accom
plished  peer  handled  the  case  and  how  the  sturdy  man
of  letters  hadn't  a  suspicion  that  the  case — and  least
of  all  he  himself  as  part  of  it — was  handled.  Lord
Mellifont  expended  treasures  of  tact,  and  Clare
Vawdrey  never  dreamed  he  was  doing  it.
Vawdrey  had  no  suspicion  of  any  such  precaution
even  when  Blanche  Adney  asked  him  if  he  really
didn't  see  by  this  time  his  third  act — an  inquiry
into  which  she  introduced  a  subtlety  of  her  own.  She
had  settled  it  for  him  that  he  was  to  write  her  a  play
and  that  the  heroine,  should  he  but  do  his  duty,  would
be  the  part  for  which  she  had  immemorially  longed.
