Hilda was on one side of me; Lady Meadowcroft on the other; and beyond her again, bluff Yorkshire Sir Ivor, with his cold, hard, honest blue North Country eyes, and his dignified, pompous English, breaking down at times into a North Country colloquialism.

They talked chiefly to each other.

Acting on Hilda's instructions, I took care not to engage in conversation with our "exclusive" neighbour, except so far as the absolute necessities of the table compelled me.

I "troubled her for the salt" in the most frigid voice.

"May I pass you the potato salad ?" became on my lips a barrier of separation.