Every one whom she had asked had come, and so had Joan Mardle.

Lady Shalem had suggested several names at the last moment, and there was quite a strong infusion of the Teutonic military and official world.

It was just as well, Cicely reflected, that the supper was being given at a restaurant and not in Berkshire Street.
"Quite like ole times," purred the beaming proprietor in Cicely's ear, as the staircase and cloak-rooms filled up with a jostling, laughing throng.
The guests settled themselves at four tables, taking their places where chance or fancy led them, late comers having to fit in wherever they could find room.

A babel of tongues in various languages reigned round the tables, amid which the rattle of knives and forks and plates and the popping of corks made a subdued hubbub.

Gorla Mustelford, the motive for all this sound and movement, this chatter of guests and scurrying of waiters, sat motionless in the fatigued self-conscious silence of a great artist who has delivered a great message.
"Do sit at Lady Peach's table, like a dear boy," Cicely begged of Tony Luton, who had come in late; "she and Gerald Drowly have got together, in spite of all my efforts, and they are both so dull.