He's civil, of course, because he's an abject slave of Di's, and she refused to come and pay a visit in England without me: but I give him the shivers, I know very well: and I take an impish joy in making him jump.
"I'm sure he won't be there this evening," Di went on, when I hesitated.
"He's playing bridge with a lot of dear old boys in the library, or was, half an hour ago.

Come, let me help you there.

It's only a step." She put her pretty arm round my waist, and leaning on her I walked across the room, out into a corridor, through a tiny "bookroom" where odd volumes and old magazines are kept, into Lord Mountstuart's study.
It is a nice room, which he uses much as his wife uses her boudoir.

The library next door is rather a show place, but the study has only Lord Mountstuart's favourite books in it.

He writes there (he has written a novel or two, and thinks himself literary), and some pictures he has painted in different parts of the world hang on the walls: for he also fancies himself artistic.
In one corner is a particularly comfortable, cushiony lounge where, I suppose, the distinguished author lies and thinks out his subjects, or dreams them out.