Ours, on the contrary, is an age of slums wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--mental, literary, and theological.
Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee.

His back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not his own, nor yet his teeth.

But his manners were entirely his own.

His face was eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society smile with the best of them.

There was not a young man in the room of whom he was afraid, conversationally.
"No, Lady Cantourne," he repeated.