As I took my place at the dinner-table I realised that I was not the only tired mortal in LadyFlambard's Whitsuntide party. Mayot, who sat opposite me, had dark pouches under hiseyes and that unwholesome high complexion which in a certain type of physique meansthat the arteries are working badly. I knew that he had been having a heavy time in theHouse of Commons over the Committee stage of his Factory Bill. Charles Ottery, whogenerally keeps himself fit with fives and tennis, and has still the figure of an athleticschoolboy, seemed nervous and out of sorts, and scarcely listened to his companion'schatter. Our hostess had her midseason look; her small delicate features were as sharp as apin, and her blue eyes were drained of colour. But it was Arnold Tavanger farther down thetable who held my attention. His heavy, sagacious face was a dead mask of exhaustion. Helooked done to the world, and likely to fall asleep over his soup.
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