She noticed that he ate as far as possible with his right
hand--his hands were large, but smooth and well shaped--his left
remaining under the cloth, beneath which the child's right hand, when
free, would likewise disappear. For a while the conversation consisted
chiefly of anecdotes by Mr. Airlie. There were few public men and women
about whom he did not know something to their disadvantage. Joan,
listening, found herself repeating the experience of a night or two
previous, when, during a performance of _Hamlet_, Niel Singleton, who was
playing the grave-digger, had taken her behind the scenes. Hamlet, the
King of Denmark and the Ghost were sharing a bottle of champagne in the
Ghost's dressing-room: it happened to be the Ghost's birthday. On her
return to the front of the house, her interest in the play was gone. It
was absurd that it should be so; but the fact remained.
Mr. Airlie had lunched the day before with a leonine old gentleman who
every Sunday morning thundered forth Social Democracy to enthusiastic
multitudes on Tower Hill. Joan had once listened to him and had almost
been converted: he was so tremendously in earnest.
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