Nobody could tell whether there was anything the matter with them or not--and whether they were only very deep set or were weak, like an albino's, or were slightly crossed, the guests of the house never knew.

Lydia herself didn't know, and had given up trying to find out.
They had planned to go for a spin in Mortimer's motor after dinner, but in view of the Quarrier fiasco neither was in the mood for anything.
Mortimer, as usual, ate and drank heavily.

He was a carnivorous man, and liked plenty of thick, fat, underdone meat.

As for Lydia, her appetite was as erratic as her own impulses.

Her table, always wastefully elaborate, no doubt furnished subsistence for all the relatives of her household below stairs, and left sufficient for any ambitious butler to make a decent profit on.
"Do you know, Leroy," she observed, as they left the table and sauntered back into the pale blue drawing-room, "do you know that the servants haven't been paid for three months ?" "Oh, for Heaven's sake," he expostulated, "don't begin that sort of thing! I get enough of that at home; I get it every time I show my nose!" "I only mentioned it," she said carelessly.
"I heard you all right.