Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile. He certainly was
one of the most distinguished-looking men in the room, with a brilliant
ribbon across his breast, and that smart, well-brushed general effect
which stamps the successful soldier.
"When did you come back to England?" inquired Edith Mazerod, whose father
had worked with this man in India.
"I--oh! I have been home six months," he replied, shaking hands with a
subtle _empressemant_ which was more effective than words.
"On leave?"
"No. Laid on the shelf."
He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if to
show as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and work
in him yet.
Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention.
"Dora," she said, "may I introduce General Michael? My cousin."
She rose, and Seymour Michael prepared to take the vacant seat. The youth
called Jack was making signs with his eyebrows, and in attempting to
decipher his meaning she forgot to mention Dora's name.
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