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three unbracket is spelled out so precisely for good reason. Do you not agree,
     Lord Beddington?’ Sir Thomas raised his voice, and with a harumph of a start Lord Beddington was restored to consciousness.
    ‘Quite,’ he grunted, and collapsed back into semi-oblivion.
    ‘Mrs Langham?’ Sir Thomas turned graciously to his neighbour. ‘Do you have a comment?’
    ‘Oh,’ replied Angelina, fluttering her eyelashes and looking modestly down. ‘I’m only a woman, of course, but it does seem
     to me, Sir Thomas,’ bestowing a bright ingenuous smile on her chairman, ‘that it might be rather difficult for the Society
     to do full justice to the memory of Mr Dickens on the birthday of Mr William Shakespeare in a centenary year to be devoted
     to the Bard of Avon.’
    ‘It is my intention,’ explained Sir Thomas loftily, then paused. Dear Angelina could not possibly have seen where this was
     leading her, but it would be unwise for him to provoke further outbursts of hysterical jealousy by divulging that he had no
     intention of celebrating Mr Dickens on 23rd April 1900, but of leading the Bard’s important birthday celebrations himself
     in such a dramatic year. That would come later. ‘I have my plans. No need to worry your pretty head about that,’ he said graciously,
     patting her hand in avuncular fashion.
    Dear Angelina tried to restrain herself from pulling her hand away, and smiled understandingly. Her plans, after all, needed
     longer to mature. She could not bring herself to vote with him, but she would not alienate him – not yet. Her chance would
     come at Broadstairs.
    ‘And Mrs Figgis-Hewett.’ Sir Thomas bestowed another gracious smile, this time of forgiveness, on Gwendolen. But Gwendolen
     had no intention of being forgiven. There had been no question mark in his voice, she noted. Very well. Thomas should suffer.
     She was going to show him that she had a mind of her own.
    ‘I haven’t really decided,’ she cried shrilly, and a ripple of surprise ran round the table. ‘There is a great deal to be
     said for both sides, it seems to me.’ What it was, she didn’t know, but Sir Thomas was seriously alarmed. No trace showed
     in his voice, however.
    ‘Very well,’ he announced smoothly, ‘we will reflect further whilst we are at Broadstairs and—’
    ‘No,’ interrupted Samuel triumphantly, victory in his grasp, so he mistakenly thought. Mathematics was not his strong point.
     ‘We vote now, as already decided. All those in favour of Sir Thomas’s argument that his office as chairman expires on 23rd
     April 1900 kindly make your views known.’
    With years of practice at waking up at the psychologicalmoment, Lord Beddington jerked into consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said in a pleased voice. Gwendolen sat in a miasma of conflicting
     emotions.
    ‘Mrs Figgis-Hewett.’ The full force of Sir Thomas’s personality was brought to bear on her. It was too much for a mere female.
     She shivered. If she disagreed, he would never speak to her again, never hold her arm as they walked the lanes of England
     in search of past literary glories, never clasp her hand as at that particularly exciting reading of Wordsworth’s
Prelude
, never again stride the moors as Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, never – ah her heart quickened – never again a swift
     brushing of her lips as in the dark of a Mediterranean evening they trod in the steps of Shelley. No,
she
would remain true, even if he had proved a rotten apple. But somewhere, some time he would pay. At Broadstairs.
    ‘Aye!’ she yelled out suddenly, making everyone jump.
    Sir Thomas relaxed, forgetting to flash her a smile of gratitude, something he never failed to do in banking diplomacy. ‘And
     I myself make three in favour. Any abstentions?’ There was none. ‘Very well.’ Sir Thomas paused impressively. ‘So that is
     three in favour, three against. I therefore propose the only alternative allowed for in the rules. We must put the