Backed by an estate and a good income, there was no reason why its last surviving member should not be a conspicuous social success.

Well, it seemed that he was a conspicuous social failure.
He owed that to Stanistreet, curse him! curse him! His brain still reeled, and he roused himself with difficulty from his retrospective dream.

When he spoke again it was with the conscious incisiveness of a drunken man trying hard to control his speech.
"Would you mind telling me who you've told this story to?
Lady Morley, for one.

My wife," he raised his voice in his excitement, "my wife, I suppose, for another ?" Stanistreet had every reason for not wanting to quarrel with Tyson.

He liked a country house that he could run down to when he chose; he liked a good mount; he liked a faultless billiard-table; and oddly enough, with all his faults he liked Nevill Tyson.