The luncheon itself did not lack festive vivacity;
Richard, in surveying his guests from the head of the board, had
feelings not unlike those wherein King Polycrates lulled himself of
old; there wanted, in truth, one thing to complete his
self-complacence, but an extra glass or two of wine enrubied his
imagination, and he already saw Adela's face smiling to him from the
table's unoccupied end. What was such conquest in comparison with
that which fate had accorded him?
There was a satisfactory gathering to hear Mr. Westlake's address;
Richard did not fail to note the presence of a few reporters, only
it seemed to him that their pencils might have been more active.
Here, too, was Adela at length; every time his name was uttered,
perforce she heard; every encomium bestowed upon him by the various
speakers was to him like a new bud on the tree of hope. After all,
why should he feel this humility towards her? What man of
prominence, of merit, at all like his own would ever seek her hand?
The semblance of chivalry which occasionally stirred within him was,
in fact, quite inconsistent with his reasoned view of things; the
English working class has, on the whole, as little of that quality
as any other people in an elementary stage of civilisation. He was a
man, she a woman.
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