The
sole event that chequered the exact regularity of the repast was
the occasional arrival of a wine-bottle for one of the guests. The
receiver of the wine-bottle signed a small paper in exchange for
it and wrote largely a number on the label of the bottle; then,
staring at the number and fearing that after all it might be
misread by a stupid maid or an unscrupulous compeer, he would re-
write the number on another part of the label, even more largely.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton obviously did not belong to this world. He
was a young man of twenty-five or so, not handsome, but elegant.
Though he was not in evening dress, though he was, as a fact, in a
very light grey suit, entirely improper to a dinner, he was
elegant. The suit was admirably cut, and nearly new; but he wore
it as though he had never worn anything else. Also his demeanour,
reserved yet free from self-consciousness, his method of handling
a knife and fork, the niceties of his manner in transferring food
from the silver dishes to his plate, the tone in which he ordered
half a bottle of wine--all these details infallibly indicated to
the company that Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was their superior. Some
folks hoped that he was the son of a lord, or even a lord.
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