With a poultice on his eye he looked like a swashbuckler home from the wars; and as he had not troubled to shave himself, the effect was heightened.
"What sort of company sits when a titled lady enters!" He seized a big spoon and rapped on the board with it.

"Blood of an onion! Rise, every one!" Everybody rose, although there were men in the room in no mind to be told their duty by a Greek.

Lady Saffren Waldon walked to a place near the head of the table with a chilling bow.

As usual when night and the yellow lamplight modified merciless outlines, she looked lovely enough.
But she lacked the royal gift of seeming at home with the vulgar herd.
She could make men notice her--serve her, up to a certain point--and feel that she was the center of interest wherever she might choose to be; but because she was everlastingly on guard, she lacked the power to put mixed company at ease.
Only the ex-missionary at the head of the table seemed to consider himself socially qualified to entertain her.

She was at no pains to conceal contempt for him.
"You honor my poor hotel!" he assured her.
"It is certainly a very poor hotel," she answered.
"Do you expect to remain long, may I ask ?" "What right have you to ask me questions?
Tell that native to go away from behind my chair.